


One day at a time

by Frenchsoda



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Photographer Yang, Porn With Plot, Reporter Blake, Rio de Janeiro, Sexual Content, Smut, The spice got out of hand (again), mention of a past abusive relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27591577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchsoda/pseuds/Frenchsoda
Summary: Who cares if Yang isn’t straight? Blake isn’t some uptight douche bag who can’t handle her photographer being gay, or bi, or anything she fucking wants. Hell, she’s working for Weiss Schnee, and you can’t get gayer than that. And it’s none of her business, who Yang sleeps with. She just can’t believe her new partner would get hit on not even an hour after she met her. Yeah, that’s it. That’s what annoys her. Blake only aims to blend in, to watch from afar. Her job requires discretion, only stepping out of the shadows when necessary, but Yang shines so brightly there are no shadows to hide in anymore. Blake feels exposed next to her, because of her.And she fucking hates it.Or7 days trapped with Yang Xiao Long in Rio de Janeiro.
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 84
Kudos: 462
Collections: Bumbleby Big Bang 2020





	1. Day one

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, here is my entry for the Bumbleby Big Bang! It was incredibly fun to do, and I was lucky enough to be paired with the amazing Starfish Prime. She’s a great artist and a great friend to have! Please go check [her stunning art](https://starfishprime88.tumblr.com/post/634972750347403264/show-chapter-archive) for this project and give her the love she deserves!
> 
> Huge thank you to the mods for organizing this event, which was not only fun as hell but also allowed me to make some amazing new friends along the way!

For the tenth time today, Blake checks her documents. Passport, international press card, flight ticket, everything’s here. Everything but Ilia. She calls her once again and, once again, she gets the answering machine. Blake swears quietly. The boarding will start in half an hour and they still have to pass security. What the hell is Ilia doing?

Her phone vibrates in her hand, Weiss’s name appearing on the screen, and Blake picks up faster than lightning.

“Weiss! Did you hear from Ilia? She’s still not at the airport, I’m starting to freak out.”

“Well, hello to you too,” Weiss groans, and Blake is not in the mood to humor her boss right now.

“Can we _please_ get to the point?”

“Ilia got into a car accident.”

“What?! Is she okay?”

“She’s not in danger, don’t worry, but she broke her leg. I’m at the hospital with her right now.”

Blake pinches her nose, frowns and even growls a little.

“I’m glad it’s just her leg,” she finally sighs, “but what about our mission? I can’t cover this without a photograph.”

“I already took care of it,” Weiss brags, and Blake can actually see her smug smile at the other end of the line. “All of our photographers are in the field, but I called a friend of mine. She’s excellent. She’s on her way right now. Just go on board, she’ll catch up with you soon.”

“How did you even manage to get her a plane ticket? We’re boarding in thirty minutes!”

“I’m the Schnee heiress, remember?”

Blake sighs once more. Of course she remembers. How could she not? She’s working for Weiss Schnee, the girl who built a newspaper empire from scratch in order to redeem her family name after her father—one of the most corrupted politicians of the country—got imprisoned for embezzlement.

“Fine,” she mumbles. “But this friend of yours better be good, because I’m not working with an amateur.”

“Oh, she’s a pro, trust me,” Weiss assures, and there’s a hint of something in her voice, a mischief that Blake really, really doesn’t like. “I have to go back to Ilia. Text me when you arrive!”

“Sure. Give Ilia my best and take good care of her for me, okay?”

“I will.”

Blake hangs up and slowly rubs her temples as she feels the headache spreading, before taking a deep breath and grabbing her backpack. When she reaches the security checkpoints, she tries not to think about the fact that she’ll spend seven days alone with a complete stranger. Working together. Discovering an unknown country together. Sharing a room together. Blake bites her lip and her frown deepens.

No matter whom she ends up with, there’s no way in hell all of this will go smoothly.

*

Blake has been fidgeting on her aisle seat for five minutes already, so nervous her palms are sweaty. She scrutinizes every single person getting on the plane, hoping to—somehow miraculously—identify the photographer Weiss sent her. All she knows is that it’s a girl. And a pro. And that she better gets on that plane before it takes off or else this mission is doomed, and Blake can’t face failure right now.

She’s brooding over the whole situation, mouth curled down and gaze angry, when someone stops right next to her.

“Are you Blake?”

She looks up at the blonde girl slightly leaning towards her, purple eyes and smile so shiny they dazzle her for a second.

“I am,” she finally answers, and the other girl’s grin grows bigger, if it’s even possible, as if she’s meeting a dear friend she hasn’t seen in ages.

“Thank god!” the stranger exclaims. She puts her backpack in the overhead locker while talking cheerfully. “I thought I’d never make it. When Weiss called me and told me I had one hour to get ready and reach the airport, I thought she was joking. But, I mean, it’s Weiss, I should have known she never jokes about work! Oh, sorry, can I—”

She points to the unoccupied seat next to Blake, by the window, and the reporter stutters an apology while jumping on her feet to let her pass. There’s an awkward second where they kind of bump into each other, but the blonde laughs it off before sitting and putting her camera bag between her feet. As Blake falls back on her seat, the photographer stretches, eyes closed, messy hair cascading over her face. She’s wearing a fitted yellow shirt with a deep neckline, and a necklace—a heart in flames sculpted in dark wood—hangs on her cleavage. She’s gorgeous. There’s no other way to put it. She’s a gorgeous, shiny blonde girl with a stunning body and a blazing smile, and Blake already hates it. She doesn’t like attention. And this girl’s whole appearance seems to _beg_ for it.

“Oh!” The blonde opens her eyes and looks straight at Blake. She smiles—again—and somehow it annoys Blake even more. Because it’s genuine. It’s a genuine, breathtaking smile that she can’t help but return. “I’m Yang Xiao Long. Pleased to meet you!”

“The pleasure is mine,” Blake offers while shaking the hand Yang is extending towards her, and she doesn’t know if she means those words.

They release each other; the warm sensation lingers on Blake’s fingers.

“But man,” Yang chuckles, and _dammit_ , does she have to be beautiful in everything she does? “If you had told me when I woke up this morning that I’d fly to Brazil today, I would _not_ have believed you! This is going to be so fun! Oh, I’ll have to buy souvenirs for my sister. She’ll kill me if I don’t bring anything back.”

She looks so excited, like a little kid before Christmas, and it confronts Blake with her own lack of eagerness. She’s going to the Rio carnival, for fuck’s sake. One of the biggest, most cheerful events of the world. And she only thinks about her notes, her interviews, the report she’ll have to write when she gets back. Should she try to enjoy it more? No. No, Yang is the one who should focus more. Ilia would have understood her. Ilia’s serious, efficient, and she never gets distracted from her job. Ilia’s the perfect fit for Blake, and it’ll be the first time she covers an event without her trusted partner since they started working for Weiss.

“Sorry,” Yang suddenly apologizes. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

“You’re not,” Blake lies, because Yang _is_ talking too much. She’s been here for, what, two minutes? And already she makes her feel uncomfortable. Blake likes the quiet clicks of Ilia’s camera while she writes her thoughts down, she likes peace, she likes to explore the world with calm company or no company at all. And now, she’s stuck with _her_. And the worst part is Yang has been nothing but charming, so she can’t give her the cold shoulder.

“Weiss told me you’re a professional photographer?” Blake asks to chase away her unease. “Who do you work for?”

“I’m a freelancer, actually! I work for different magazines.”

“That’s nice. Which ones?”

Yang smiles, and it’s half-teasing, half-devilish. It’s freaking suspicious and Blake suddenly remembers Weiss’s cryptic tone when she talked about Yang’s profession.

“I doubt you know about them,” she giggles. “They’re all adult magazines.”

“Ad—What?”

“You know, erotic magazines, with nudes and all.”

“I _know_ what an adult magazine is, thank you,” Blake snaps, and she’s so confused she doesn’t even know what she’s feeling right now. Is it a joke? But by the amused and certain look on Yang’s face, she knows it’s not. “What the fuck,” she breathes out. “Weiss sent me a fucking nude photographer? What is she _thinking_?”

“Hey, I’m good at my job,” Yang frowns.

“ _Your_ job has nothing to do with _mine_. I need someone who can capture the ambiance, the feelings, the unsaid, not someone who can—who can find perfect lightning for an ass!”

Yang chortles.

“Oh my—,” she says before looking at Blake with mischievous eyes. “There’s a little bit more than that to my job, but I get your point. Rest assured, I also take pictures for fun, outside of my job. Landscapes, portraits, streets, crowds—”

But Blake isn’t listening anymore. She’s furious. Why did Weiss choose someone like her? At this point, it’d be better to cancel the mission rather than to end up with only superficial pictures to illustrate her report. She needs realness. Emotions. She needs something different, not just pictures of fit bodies in fancy costumes.

“Weiss said you’d be okay with this,” Yang sighs, and Blake can’t help but look at her.

Yang is fiddling with her clothes, disappointment darkening her eyes as she avoids her gaze. And, somehow, Blake’s heart sinks a little.

“In what universe would I be okay with this?” she finally groans. She won’t let that stranger manipulate her. She’s angry, and Yang needs to understand why. “I need a professional. Someone used to cover major events, someone who can take the right picture at the right time, in a split second, because that’s all you get when you’re in the streets. You’re working in your studio all the time. It’s completely different.”

Yang looks back at her, a new kind of spark in her purple eyes—and really, who knew eyes could have such a pretty color?

“So you don’t care about me working for nude magazines? You’re just mad because I work in a studio most of the time?”

Blake stares at her. “I’m mad because Weiss didn’t think this through and chose someone who’s not used to fieldwork. I have no doubt you’re a great photographer, and you can go and take pictures of all the naked girls or boys you want, it’s really none of my concern. I just know there’s a big difference between planning a picture with a model and taking one in the middle of a crowd, in the heat of the moment. This mission, this job is important to me. I need more than random shots people have seen a hundred times before. I want to go behind the scenes, and I need a field photographer in order to do that.”

Yang nods, and she looks so relieved Blake wonders how many people showed contempt for her job in the past.

“If I show you some of my work when we arrive in Rio, would it reassure you? Not the nudes. Just some of the pictures I took outside, in the heat of the moment, as you say.”

Blake bites her lip. She just snapped at her, and yet Yang is still being so considerate. It irritates her. That girl is _too much_. Too kind, too lively, too gorgeous, too honest. It’s freaking her out.

“Sure, whatever,” she mutters. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a killer headache and I need to rest for a while.”

“Of course.”

Just before Blake closes her eyes, Yang smiles at her one last time. It’s soft and caring, and it annoys her even more.

*

She doesn’t sleep. She’s thinking too much about all they have to do when they’ll get off the plane, about work, about Yang, sitting next to her, face glued to the window as she contemplates the view.

Seven days. Seven days with her.

As Yang watches the sky, Blake watches her. She always thought people like her didn’t exist. People so naturally beautiful they shine like the sun and attract attention wherever they go. Even the stewardess couldn’t stop looking at her, her smile too provocative, her voice too low when she talked to Yang. And Yang played right by her book, flirting back with such an ease Blake wondered if she wasn’t just being her charming natural self. And that, the flirt, upset her more than anything else so far, except that this time she has no idea why. Who cares if Yang isn’t straight? Blake isn’t some uptight douche bag who can’t handle her photographer being gay, or bi, or anything she fucking wants. Hell, she’s working for _Weiss Schnee_ , and you can’t get gayer than that. And it’s none of her business, who Yang sleeps with. She just can’t believe her new partner would get hit on not even an hour after she met her. Yeah, that’s it. That’s what annoys her. Blake only aims to blend in, to watch from afar. Her job requires discretion, only stepping out of the shadows when necessary, but Yang shines so brightly there are no shadows to hide in anymore. Blake feels exposed next to her, because of her.

And she fucking hates it.

***

Their flight is nine-hour long. Nine hours stuck with grumpy, moody, sexy Blake Belladonna. Nine hours Yang intends to enjoy to the fullest extent. She can feel her gaze on the nape of her neck every time she pretends to look through the window, she noticed how exasperated Blake was when the stewardess openly flirted with her, and she can’t forget the bright light gleaming in her golden eyes when they first looked at each other. It’s so obvious it’s almost ridiculous. There’s something there, a physical chemistry, a wild fire waiting to ignite at the smallest spark. There’s something there and, somehow, Blake seems completely oblivious to it, turning it into discontent and anger instead.

Yang doesn’t care. She can be patient. She has a whole week to change Blake’s mind from irritation to curiosity, from furor to arousal. Starting now.

She unbuckles her seat belt, gets up and smiles apologetically at the girl next to her.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

When Blake moves to unfasten her belt, Yang presses a gentle hand on her shoulder and her grin widens, almost predatory.

“Oh no, please. Don’t move.”

She graciously lifts a leg and steps over Blake’s thighs before reaching the corridor. It lasts two seconds top, but it’s more than enough to completely faze the reporter. A fierce blush paints her cheeks, her eyes bulge and she looks so utterly confused Yang has to bite her lip not to laugh.

As she walks towards the back of the plane, ignoring the few male gazes following her every move, Yang can’t help the excitement swelling in her chest. Blake is gorgeous, easily flustered and _exactly_ her type.

Gosh. This trip is going to be fun.

***

Blake is furious. The moment she gets back to the office, she’ll strangle Weiss. What was her boss thinking? Pairing her with someone like Yang? Not only is she not used to fieldwork, but she’s also so—so—unprofessional, and irritating, and carefree, and they’ve been in Rio for less than two hours and Blake already knows this whole mission will be a disaster.

Yang chats with _everyone_ , makes stupid jokes whenever she can, and laughs so heartily people stare at her from across the street. Wherever they go, she’s the center of attention. Because she’s so _loud_. So bright. So fucking beaming all the time. When they got out of the cab—after an excruciating ride during which Yang decided she’d learn some Portuguese basics with their driver—she took a picture of a passerby and then started a ten minutes conversation with him, trying her newly learnt Portuguese and mixing it with English, laughing together as if they’d known each other for years. By the end of the discussion, she’d already gotten an invite for a party this very evening. How is that even _possible_? How can someone mingle so well with everyone? And doesn’t she understand that they are working right now, and that they shouldn’t waste time talking to every stranger that crosses their path?

So, yeah. Blake is furious. She’s quietly unpacking in their hotel room while Yang marvels at the view from their balcony. Blake told her about their schedule during the flight and Yang knows how short on time they are, so _why_ is she lazing around instead of getting ready for tonight? They have so much to do. So many places to visit, so many people to meet, so many photos to take and interviews to conduct. And Yang just _doesn’t care_. She’s all about fun and sightseeing and, fuck, Blake is so tired of her already.

“Oh!” Yang shouts from the balcony before getting inside. “Do you want to see my work? So that you stop worrying about me not being able to take a decent spontaneous picture.”

Blake shrugs, too busy laying her laptop, notebook and recorder on her bed to properly answer her new nemesis.

Yang drops on her own bed and opens her computer. Two minutes later, she’s inviting Blake to sit next to her and the reporter reluctantly obliges. Yang scoots closer, their thighs and shoulders press against each other, and Blake has to summon all of her mental strength to ignore the softness of her body. Because she shouldn’t notice it. She shouldn’t care.

“So,” Yang begins, her laptop on her knees, “I took these pictures a month ago during a concert I went with my sister. Crazy music, crazy energy, crazy public. I tried to convey how electric it was. What do you think?”

Well, fuck. Blake was expecting nice but mundane shots, but those are breathtaking. Full of life and raw emotions, of colors and sounds. There’s a sense of rhythm in the photos’ stillness, and even if Blake can’t hear it, she can _feel_ the music as she looks at those hundreds of vivid faces, those hands dancing in the air, those lights tearing up the venue’s darkness. It’s exactly the kind of thing she needs for this mission.

Yang fidgets next to her. Her hair smells nice. Even after a nine-hour flight, it’s silky and shiny, and some curls are actually falling on Blake’s bare shoulder. Fuck, Yang. You shouldn’t be this close.

“Those are nice pictures,” is all she manages to say before hastily getting up and walking back to her single bed.

“Just nice?”

She glances at Yang, who’s looking at her with eyes so blazing, so confident and knowing Blake yields.

“Fine,” she groans. “They’re amazing. Happy?”

Yang grins brightly and purrs, “Very happy.”

Her husky voice sends unexpected shivers down Blake’s spine. But she ignores it. Just like she ignored the warmth she felt when Yang pressed against her, or how she lost her breath when the blonde whispered in her ear to tell her a useless joke in the cab, or the way her heart jumped every time she brushed Blake’s wrist in the plane to show her the landscape outside the window.

Blake is just tired and annoyed. That’s it.

“Alright,” Yang exclaims. “So, tonight we’re meeting with two different samba schools, but after that we have nothing planned, right?”

“Right.”

“We should walk in the streets! The carnival starts tomorrow but there will already be unofficial parades and parties tonight. Let’s mingle and have some fun while we can!”

Blake sighs so loudly it’s actually rude. But really, that’s the best she can do. Yang pisses her off.

“We’re not here to have fun, Yang. We’re here to work.”

“Oh, come on! We’re in for some crazy days, tonight is the only time we can relax a bit. We can chill, meet some people!”

“I don’t want to meet anyone,” Blake hisses, and it’s too harsh even for her.

Of course, it doesn’t go unnoticed by Yang.

“You don’t want to meet some crazy handsome Brazilian guy with hairy pecs or whatever you straight girls are into? Maybe he’ll be the love of your life!”

Blake snorts. She never told Yang she was straight, but maybe it’s obvious.

“Trust me, I don’t need a relationship right now.”

“Ooooh—”

Yang smirks, falls flat on her bed and rests her chin on her crossed hands. Her eyes sparkle with curiosity and amusement, and Blake can’t hold her gaze for more than a few seconds.

“Your last relationship was a disaster, uh?” she teases. “Wait, don’t tell me! I want to guess. Hm—He cheated on you with your own sister!”

Blake smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m an only child,” she reveals, voice as cool as her heart. “And he never cheated on me.”

Yang seems to ponder over that information for a while, before venturing a second guess.

“He was a freeloader, living at your expense, always asking for money and never trying to find a job to help with the bills!”

This time, Blake laughs. It’s sincere.

“He was loaded.”

“Oh. Oh! I got it! He quit his job to pursue a career as an actor, except he was terrible at it and refused to admit it and to take acting classes and stuff!”

Blake shakes her head. Her throat aches as she remembers him.

“Actually,” she murmurs, “he was a great actor.” She straightens herself up and starts shoving her personal effects in her backpack. “As much as I _love_ this little game, we need to leave. We have an interview in one hour and I hate to be late.”

“Fiiine,” Yang caves. “But I’ll figure it out eventually! I’m a great judge of character.”

Of course she is. And of course she’ll make it her life goal to find out how Blake’s relationship ended. But Blake isn’t sure she can play that game for long. Because if they do, she’ll think about him. And she can’t. She can’t think about him. She can’t go back there. She did such a great job burying it under layers and layers of denial and work concerns, she can’t dig him out of her repressed memories now. If she does, her hands will start shaking. If she does, she’ll lose her appetite. If she does, the nightmares will multiply.

As Yang cheerfully whistles while checking her camera bag, Blake closes her eyes. All she can see is him.

In all shades of red.

***

It’s 10 pm. Blake and Yang are walking in the packed streets of Rio de Janeiro, following the playful rhythm of the moving drummers and mingling with the crowd. Tourists and locals alike are dancing, drinking, singing, laughing, electrifying the air with a raw energy Yang rarely felt before. Her own body vibrates with excitement. She feels alive. Happy. So grateful to be there.

In all this explosion of joy and music and colors, Blake stands. Her silence speaks louder than the ambient ruckus. Her dark clothes shine brighter than the splashy costumes people are wearing. Her impassive stare says more than the vivid expressions flushing the crowd’s faces. She’s there, a shadow amongst the blinding lights, a question mark amongst the exclamation points. She’s there, and she’s far more fascinating than the whole city of Rio de Janeiro during the carnival.

Yang knows Blake isn’t having fun. She wonders, even, if she _can_ have fun. Blake only thinks about work. It’s all she talks about, all she cares about, all she looks forward to. They are surrounded by half-naked people, of all shapes and colors, bumping into dancing bodies and catching cheerful glares, but Blake remains indifferent to it all, constantly checking her phone or writing notes down instead. Yang wonders what kind of life she’s living, back home. Does she find joy somewhere, anywhere? Is she happy?

Yang spots a food stand across the street and decides to postpone her inner questioning.

“Blake, look!” she says instead, gently grabbing the other woman’s wrist and showing her the stall. “How about I buy us dinner? I’m starving!”

Blake just nods, and Yang guides her through the crowd, never letting her wrist go. Blake is so slender. Her skin is cool, despite the warm and humid weather. How good would it feel, to hold her against her bare body? As she elbows her way through, Yang bites her lip. Tonight, they’ll sleep in the same room. Tomorrow too. And the day after that, and so on until the end of the week.

She furtively glances at Blake. A furious blush paints her cheeks and she’s staring at Yang’s hand so hard her skin stings, but only when they reach the stand does Yang release Blake’s wrist.

She buys them two sausage sandwiches and they eat in silence, leaning against a tall tree, set back from the parade. Couples are walking past them. People are running towards their friends, eating, talking over the phone. A few teenagers are sitting on the sidewalk and sipping their beer. Amongst the Portuguese exclamations, Yang distinguishes some English.

“Adam!”

A woman grabs a young kid by his arm and drags him behind her.

“Stop running around or you’ll get lost like last time!”

They both disappear into the crowd, as if they were never there in the first place. Except Yang noticed Blake’s reaction. She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t even look at her. She wants to hold her hand, now shaking, but she can’t. It’s not her place. She takes a bite of her sandwich and watches the crowd instead. So. His name is Adam.

And he’s an asshole.

***

Yang is dancing. She’s surrounded by topless young men in the middle of a packed crowd, and she’s all anyone can see. She’s wearing ripped jean shorts, a simple gray tank top and white snickers, and she stands out. So. Fucking. Much. It’s giving Blake a headache just to watch her.

Yang is in her element—human bodies on fire, fueled with adrenaline and music. She looks so alive. Blonde hair gleaming under the street lights, lilac eyes burning with thrill, smile so bright Blake has to look away. Oh, she’s infuriating. Doing as she pleases, ruling these men with a few dance moves, staring at her with her smug grin. She tried to drag Blake into the dancing assembly, and Blake had to decline multiple times before Yang finally gave up, handed her her camera bag and went dancing by herself. Now, men are lining up to teach her samba steps, and she’s laughing so candidly some passersby are actually stopping just to watch her.

One guy leans forward and says something in Yang’s ear, and she bursts out laughing. Ugh. Blake rolls her eyes. She’s tired. So fucking tired. Her day was too long, too full. The waking before dawn, the flight, the interviews, the walking. Yang. It’s all too tiring.

Blake steps into the dancing crowd, squeezing Yang’s camera bag against her chest. She got robbed once, in the street. A guy just snatched her purse out of her hand and ran off. She won’t let it happen again, especially with someone else’s belongings.

“Oh my—” Yang gushes when she sees her getting closer. She ignores the guy dancing with her, staring only at Blake, smiling only for her. “Are you granting me a dance, miss Belladonna?”

Blake snorts. “I’m going back to the hotel.”

“Oh, come on! It’s not that late! Stay, please.”

Blake detects the smallest hint of plea in Yang’s voice, and _that_ , more than anything else tonight—more than his name, even—really throws her off. Because it makes it seem like Yang can’t fully enjoy her night if Blake doesn’t stay.

“I’m exhausted. I need to get some sleep.”

Her tone wavers, but Yang probably can’t hear it over the loud drumrolls filling the air. Yang steps forward and gently grabs her camera bag.

“Why can’t you have some fun?” she asks, voice and eyes soft, while putting her backpack on.

“I’m not here for fun, I’m here for work.”

“Who says you can’t do both?”

“I don’t _do_ fun, Yang.”

The photographer grins. “Well, tonight you do!”

She takes her hand, makes her twirl in one confident gesture, and Blake is so surprised that a small laugh escapes her mouth.

“See?” Yang smiles. “You _can_ do fun.”

Blake bites her lip, hesitant.

“Come on!” Yang cheers. She delicately catches her other hand. “Let me teach you how to atrociously dance the samba.”

She’s warm. Gentle. A bit funny, even.

“I—”

Blake swallows her unease. Can she really have some fun? Can she enjoy herself, just a bit, without the guilt crushing her until she can’t breathe?

“Okay,” she finally yields, and she chuckles when Yang shouts her enthusiasm. “But not for too long! I do need some sleep, and so do you. We have a big day tomorrow.”

“Yes, mom.”

Blake rolls her eyes, again, but soon enough she can’t do anything but stare at Yang’s feet, legs, hips, as Yang tries to replicate and show her the moves countless men taught her for the past half hour.

By the end of the night, she spun, jumped, tripped, laughed with Yang, with tourists from all around the world, with Brazilian boys and girls wildly cheering her on. She met people whose name she’ll never remember. Danced amongst bodies she’ll never see again. Listened to voices she’ll never recognize. She learnt Yang is a terrible dancer and hides it behind the brightest smile and the silliest confidence. She forgot how to breathe when they swirled around each other. She missed her warmth when they got separated in the crowd. She looked at her, smiled at her and danced with her for hours.

And she still doesn’t know a single samba move.

*

They go back home around 2 am. Blake is exhausted and relaxed. Happy, maybe. She had a good night. No, scratch that, she had a _great_ night, thanks to this girl who saw past her cold glares and harsh words, and who insisted on them having fun. They don’t talk on the way back. They walk side by side, watching the crowd slowly disperse under the street lights. The drums quieted long ago, but the air is still filled with laughs, chants and chatters. A gentle breeze freshens their skin. It’s so peaceful.

When they finally reach their hotel and stand in front of their room door, Blake doesn’t have it in her to be pissed at Yang for no valid reason.

“Hey,” she whispers as Yang takes the key out of her bag. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch all day.”

Yang freezes, stunned, and stares at her for a few seconds before chuckling.

“You weren’t.”

“I was. I was rude, and you were nothing but nice to me. I—” Blake takes a deep breath. “I had a great time tonight.”

Yang slowly nods. Her eyes darken, and Blake feels so small all of a sudden, under the gaze of such a strong person. Because Yang is strong. She’s strong, and driven, and confident, and empathetic, and everything Blake can’t be.

“I had a great time too,” she murmurs back.

For a moment, they face each other in the silence of the night, under the dim light of the corridor. Blake’s heart is racing against her chest, wild, almost painful. Yang smiles. She’s beautiful.

She finally unlocks the door and they both get in. They only exchange a few words before getting ready for bed and turning the lights off. When Blake finally closes her eyes, drifting into a careless sleep, she knows her night will be free of nightmares.


	2. Day two

The phone alarm pulls Blake out of her sleep. She groans into her pillow before painfully extending her arm and turning it off. In the bed next to her, she hears Yang ruffling her sheets and yawning, and suddenly she feels wide awake. She remembers last night and embarrassment dries her mouth. Because they had a moment. _They_ _had a fucking moment._ As if they went on a great date and all that was missing was a gentle kiss under the moonlight. And Blake can’t face it, she just can’t. She doesn’t have the time, nor the strength, to question her whole sexuality. And she doesn’t even want to acknowledge the fact that last night, for the first time in so many years, she felt free of _him_.

“That’s quite the bedhead you have here,” Yang teases from her mattress, lying on her side, gazing at her with an evil smile turned too seductive by the early morning light seeping in through the thin curtains.

Blake blushes, jumps out of bed and disappears into the bathroom.

“Don’t worry,” Yang adds, and the closed door muffles her voice, “You’re still as gorgeous as ever!”

Blake bites her lip, tries to keep her pulse in check, fails.

Fuck. This is going to be a long day.

***

They spent all morning watching people painting and adding the final details to the enormous floats filling the samba school building they visited. Blake was nowhere to be seen half of the time, fluttering around with her notebook in hand, gathering as much information as she could without disturbing the workers. Meanwhile, Yang ran around with her camera, ventured to the scaffolding allowing access to the upper parts of the floats, photographed people as they came and went in the building, loaded with tools, costumes, feathers of all shapes and colors.

Now, they’re resting in a cozy restaurant nearby, waiting for their meal, and Yang can’t help but stare at Blake. _Dear lord,_ isn’t she gorgeous right now. Leaning over the table and reading through her notes, her silky dark hair cascading around her exposed shoulders, her long lashes fluttering over her golden eyes.

Yang has seen beautiful women in her life, more than she could count. She photographed them, gazed at them, touched them, to correct their posture, to adjust lightning, to please. She worked with skins of all colors, with straight, wavy, frizzy or coiled hair, with long legs, chubby thighs, round asses, firm breasts, angelic faces. She marveled at their beauty, always. But never like this.

Because Blake isn’t just beautiful. She’s beautiful _and so much more_. She has that mysterious demeanor, that feline allure that attracts gazes from across the street, intimidated gazes, as if you needed a sixth sense to truly see her. She doesn’t notice them. The stares. The men and women glancing at her when she walks silently amongst them. She’s convinced she’s strolling in the shadows and avoiding attention when, really, she shines.

She shines so much.

And Yang can’t do anything but look at her, even if Blake gleams too brightly, even if it might burn her retinas. And she wants Blake to look at her too.

“I still can’t believe you can speak Portuguese,” she confesses, a cheek resting on her fist as she’s leaning her elbow on the table, her other hand fiddling with her necklace.

“I’m full of surprises,” Blake mumbles without tearing her eyes away from her notes.

“Oh, really?”

Yang is craving for attention, for those two breathtaking gold nuggets to rest on her and lay her bare. And she knows exactly how to get it.

“Surprise me, then,” she purrs.

She moves her foot forward and slides it along Blake’s calf, and she doesn’t even bother to hide her wicked smile.

***

So far, Blake has done wonders to avoid thinking about Yang and her stupid attractiveness. After all, she’s a pro at eluding concerning thoughts. She buried herself into work all morning and thoroughly averted her eyes whenever she caught a glimpse of blonde hair, of a shining grin or of her freaking stunning body—seriously, does Yang spend all of her free time at the gym? Not that she ogled her or anything. She just noticed, somehow.

So, yeah, Blake has done wonders all morning, and it’s all shattered into pieces by one single, unexpected, _atrociously_ _bold_ move. She draws a sharp breath and her hand twitches, but she doesn’t lose her composure. She won’t yield. She won’t give Yang the pleasure. So, she ignores the caress on her calf, she ignores the flames burning in Yang’s gaze, she ignores the tingle in her low stomach, slowly spreading to her heart, her fingers, her crotch. Instead, she hardens her expression. Arrogance shapes her face as she straightens herself and carefully sets her pen on the table. _Your little games don’t affect me_ , is what she’s silently saying. _You don’t affect me._ Because she can’t be affected by Yang. She can’t.

“I speak six different languages.”

“I don’t believe you,” Yang counters, sliding her foot one inch higher, and Blake uses all of her willpower to remain impassible.

“It’s true, though. Well, I speak five different languages. I’m still struggling with Japanese.”

The pressure on her leg increases, and Blake bites her tongue to focus on the pain, on something else, anything else. Fortunately, the universe is merciful and a waiter diverts their attention by bringing them their feijoada, a local dish Blake has been dying to try since she saw that food documentary with Weiss half a year ago. He sets the steaming bowls on the table and offers a smile before shying away from the two gorgeous women now heatedly staring at each other.

“Alright,” Yang concedes. She leans forwards and smells the rich scents of her dish. “Let’s say, for the sake of the conversation, that I am a tad bit intrigued. Which languages do you speak, other than Japanese?”

Blake doesn’t immediately answer. She tastes her food instead, rolls her eyes and moans quietly.

“This—” She points to her bowl, a hand covering her mouth, “This is awesome.”

Curious, Yang digs in too. “Fuck, you’re right,” she approves, mouth full, before moving her foot up, a fraction of an inch, and it’s enough to make Blake clench her fists around her cutlery. “And you haven’t answered my question yet.”

“Oh.” Blake clears her throat. “I speak English, Portuguese, German, French, Spanish and terrible Japanese.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. Are you a freaking genius?”

“I just like it. Discovering new languages, new cultures. I usually spend two to three hours a day studying.”

Yang shifts her leg a little higher, grazing her thigh, and Blake almost jolts, almost backs away so that Yang wouldn’t discover, somehow, how fucking _wet_ she just got.

“Isn’t it exhausting?” Yang asks between two bites, voice casual. “To come home after a long day of work and go straight to studying?”

She acts nonchalantly, as if she weren’t pushing her foot between Blake’s legs, and _oh_ , how she loves teasing her. Blake can see the amusement in her lilac eyes. They’re darkening by the minute, her pupils spreading more and more as her foot slides up and up. Blake knows her own eyes must be black with arousal. She swallows her fluster and tries to formulate a coherent response.

“I—” Yang’s foot reaches her inner thigh and Blake gasps. “I like it, actually,” she croaks, and she’s not just talking about languages, is she? “It helps me relax. It keeps my thoughts in line.”

She’s so overwhelmed she’s starting to share things she shouldn’t share, but she doesn’t really care. Somehow, in the deep, deep back of her mind, she hopes Yang will keep making her spill her truths, even if she doesn’t hear them.

***

Yang is good at picking up the signs. She always has been. People can’t hide anything from her. They think they can, because of how outgoing and carefree she appears, but behind her bright smiles and silly jokes, she reads faces, gazes, voices, and she knows. She hears the unsaid thoughts, she hears Blake’s long-lasting suffocation, she sees how the reporter forces her brain to focus on intellectual activities so that it won’t bring ghosts back to life. Just like she heard the name Adam and saw terror shaking Blake’s whole body last night.

Yang smiles and leans against her chair.

“Is that why you and your ex broke up? He couldn’t stand the fact that you could flirt in six different languages?”

She lightly presses her foot against Blake’s inner thigh, and the reporter bites her lip. Fuck. Her pupils are fully dilated, and only a thin ring of gold survives the blackness of her eyes. It’s like staring at a solar eclipse, and Yang cannot look away. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Blake is too sexy. And she’s responding _so. fucking. well._ to every single move Yang makes on her.

Before long, Blake will come to her. Just like anger ceded to arousal, arousal will cede to actions and soon, very soon, Yang will finally be able to taste her.

All of her.

***

“Is that why you and your ex broke up? He couldn’t stand the fact that you could flirt in six different languages?”

“He was actually very proud of me for knowing so much,” Blake answers.

Her voice trails. Lust is overtaking her memories. The bitterness, the loneliness and the guilt are slowly pushed aside by the pure _hunger_ swirling in the blonde’s eyes. Yang wants her. It’s clear as day. She wants her, and she’s coming for her. Blake hoped to hide from it, and now it’s all she can see, all she can think about. Yang wants her. And she wants Yang. She does, fuck, she really does. She wants this ravishing, confident, funny and open-hearted _woman_ to fuck her from dusk till dawn. And she has to fight this, this growing desire, this searing heat conquering her body inch by inch and numbing her reason. She has too. Because Blake doesn’t do relationship, not anymore, nor does she do one-night stands. Because Yang is a woman, bearing an unknown form of intimacy, and it terrifies her. Because _he’s_ still here, whispering in the depths of her mind and spreading his dark roots in her every thought.

Because she doesn’t have the right to have fun.

“Okay, okay.” Yang leans her elbows on the table and rests her chin on her crossed hands. “I will figure this out. I’m not one to back out from a challenge, after all.” She winks at her, and Blake knows _she’s_ the only challenge Yang is interested in. “Hmmm—He ditched you on your one-year anniversary to go see a game with his friends!”

Yang’s foot now brushes up against her lower thigh, and Blake fidgets on her chair. She can’t stay still anymore. She’s burning, _aching_ for more pressure, more contact, more Yang.

“He never—He never forgot an anniversary,” she manages to stammer. “And he always planned them weeks in advance.”

She doesn’t have the right to have fun, but _boy_ isn’t she having a fucking blast right now. Her heart is rocketing against her chest, her panties are _drenched_ and her brain is flooded with a lust so thick she can barely form a coherent thought. Somehow, with a single move and a devouring gaze, Yang is slowly seizing her whole being. She could do as she pleases, right now. She could grab Blake by the wrist and drag her to the bathroom to fuck her senseless, for everyone in the restaurant to hear. She could pin her against a dirty wall in a deserted back alley and take her right there, from behind, hard and fast and uncontrolled. She could break her over and over again, and Blake would still ask for more.

But Blake can’t let that happen, can she? And as she’s telling herself those words, she knows she will. She will let it happen. Fighting Yang would be a lie she doesn’t have the strength to carry. Yang is too breathtaking and strong and honest and fascinating to deny. So fuck this. Fuck _him_. And let’s fuck her instead.

“Yang, I—”

Someone knocks a bottle from a table a few feet away, and it crashes on the floor. The glass smashes so loudly, like a thunderclap, and fear takes over. Like it always does. Blake immediately shuts everything. Her eyes, her legs, her mind, her heart.

“Blake?”

“It’s nothing,” she murmurs. Her voice has lost its timbre. She opens her eyes; the world is gray. No more sun, no more blue sky, no more red tables and green plants. “Let’s get back to work.”

Maybe that’s why she’s the reporter and not the photographer. Because, sometimes, he comes back and he steals all the colors away.

“Alright.” Yang is smiling at her. It feels like she knows, like she has known all along and she’s just waiting for Blake to tell her what she really needs. “I’ll pay. Wait for me outside, okay?”

Yang just goes along with it, even though they both barely finished their meal. It’s gentle. She’s gentle.

When she joins Blake in the street and starts telling her how she tried and miserably failed to thank their waiter in Portuguese, the world is still gray, except for the two bright and kind lilac eyes never tearing away from hers.

***

At least, Blake doesn’t avoid her during the afternoon. They spend a lot of time together, even, talking about which photos would better fit the report, or about what kind of angle Blake should use to approach her story. They’re still at the samba school, taking in the ambience, but unlike this morning they stand together. Blake converses with the workers, Yang photographs them, and they share their work with a professionalism that’d fool anyone into thinking they’ve been colleagues for years.

Yang hates it. She hates that distance, she hates the void in Blake’s gaze, she hates how emotionless she became after that bottle shattered on the ground. Blake is shutting down, hiding behind work and thick walls, and she pushed her away. Because of some broken glass. Because, maybe, Yang got too close.

But Yang won’t give up. Blake was getting more and more comfortable, opening up one word at a time, and Yang knows she was about to cross a barrier, be it emotional or physical. She wants it so bad, to get closer. To _know_ Blake, in any possible way, in every possible way. It should scare her, really, to feel that kind of need for intimacy with someone else, but Yang just doesn’t care. She’s frustrated and annoyed. She wants Blake to confide in her, body and soul, but she can’t push her at the risk of definitely losing her.

So, she says nothing. She waits for the right time and the right place. She’ll break those walls, softly, without scaring her, without hurting her, and she’ll earn Blake’s trust.

In the meantime, all she can do is be patient and kind.

*

They once again pass the evening in the streets, but instead of dancing and laughing and eye-fucking each other, they work. Blake spends her time writing in her notebook, and Yang never takes her camera away.

Around 10 pm, Blake calls it a day and they silently walk back home. Yang does make a few attempts at small talk, but she’s only greeted with monosyllabic answers and unexpressive stares. So, when they finally reach their room and Blake turns to her, she can’t help being surprised—and getting her hopes up.

“You should go, Yang.” Well, a punch in the face wouldn’t have had a greater impact. “It’s not that late, you can still have some fun outside.”

Yang is so stunned she gapes.

“I don’t want to go,” is all she manages to answer.

Blake sighs. She seems exhausted. Used to the core.

“I don’t do fun, Yang. But you do. Go. Enjoy your time in Rio. We have to get up at 8 tomorrow, so you can party a bit tonight.”

Her voice is as transparent as it’s been since they left the restaurant, and it enrages Yang. Somehow, she knows all of this is because of _him_.

“Okay, Blake. Okay.” She sits on the edge of her bed, eyes locked on Blake’s lifeless face, and she sucks in a deep breath. “Last guess.”

Something flickers in the reporter’s stare, but she remains still and silent. So, Yang begins, voice trembling, because as gentle as she seeks to be, her anger is too strong to be fully contained.

“Your ex-boyfriend was the perfect guy, treating you like a queen for everybody to see. It lasted for a while, until he started to reveal his abusive tendencies. He began slow, gave you time to find him excuses, to get used to it. He began slow but it got stronger, and stronger, and you gradually started to think you weren’t worth having fun anymore, you weren’t worth feeling joy, or complete, and the only emotions you truly deserved were the one you’d feel around him.”

Blake’s skin pales and the gold of her eyes turns into steel. Slowly, she sits on her own bed, in front of Yang. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t run away.

“I don’t know what kind of abuse he forced on you. Maybe it was purely intellectual, maybe it was physical too. All I know is that, at some point, he scared you. So you threw yourself into work, because it was the only place you’d feel safe. And when you had to come home, you’d find other ways to hide in the open, like studying a new language. Because _that_ was a distraction he tolerated.”

Yang burns to touch her. To take her hand, caress her hair, embrace her. But Blake is so far away, sitting there, across the room, and Yang feels as if a stormy ocean separates them. She can only speak softly and pray for her voice to reach her, across the roaring waves and the fierce gusts.

“I think—I think he got violent, at some point. Maybe not directly against you, but—It got to the point where it terrified you. _He_ terrified you. And I think that’s when you finally got the strength to leave him.”

Yang clenches her fists to stop them from shaking with anger. She feels sick. And that’s _nothing_ compared to how Blake must have felt for who knows how long.

“Now, you have trust issues, intimacy petrifies you and work is the only thing that defines your existence. You’re scared of letting your brain rest because he will come back in your mind, so you stay busy instead. And now you speak six languages. You keep repeating that you don’t do fun when, really, you feel like you don’t _deserve_ fun. And I—I hope I got all of that wrong, I really do. Please, Blake. Tell me I got it wrong.”

Blake stares at her. She has since she started her monologue, and Yang saw the void of her gorgeous gold eyes get filled with iron, ice, fear, fury and fatigue.

“You truly are a great judge of character, aren’t you?” Bitterness colors her voice, but at least she’s expressing something for the first time since the shattered bottle. “You got it right, Yang. All of it.” Blake crosses her arms against her chest and looks away. “Except for one thing.”

Yang slightly raises her eyebrows. The girl in front of her still refuses to meet her eyes. She seems so lonely.

“I didn’t leave him.”

Finally, she looks back at Yang. No more fatigue, no more fear, no more anger shines in those two hypnotizing gold nuggets. Something else settled there, something Yang can’t define.

“He died.”

***

Blake is not ready to tell that story. She never has been, and she never will be. But here is Yang. Staring at her with gleaming eyes and clenched teeth and trembling fists. With rage, incomprehension and care. So much care. Here is Yang, who guessed her story not even two days after meeting her. Here is Yang, opening a door Blake didn’t even think existed.

She’s not ready to tell that story, but maybe it’s time anyway. She wants to get out of that asphyxiating place she trapped herself in. She wants to reach Yang, out there. She feels like she can. Maybe. With her. With this beautiful, empathetic, intuitive and strong woman by her side. But not even Yang can do that for her. She has to take the first step, and the second, and every single one after that, and trust that there’ll be someone to catch her if she trips on the way.

“He always was a fast driver.” She falls silent for a second, before gathering all of her courage. “Adam.” She hasn’t pronounced that name since he passed away. It scalds her tongue. “He died last year, in a car accident he provoked, and he took two other lives with his own. An asshole to the very end.”

She forces a smile that immediately vanishes when she sees the look on Yang’s face. It’s not pity, no. It’s a fury so red it tints her eyes. And somehow, for a reason beyond her understanding, it appeases Blake a little.

“I stayed five years with Adam, and it was just like you said. At first, he was perfect. And I was happy. I didn’t notice the changes right away, and by the time I finally realized it, it was too late. He—He _had_ me. He never hit me, not once—I think he knew I’d run away the second he did—but sometimes, when I would do something that displeased him, he would grab a glass and throw it on a wall or on the ground. Never at me. Never _near_ me. He didn’t want to hurt me, just to scare me. And he did. He shaped me through fear and dominance and made me his perfect little girl. He would criticize me all the time and it was so—considerably crafted. With delicacy, almost. Sometimes, I wouldn’t even hear the judgement, but it was there, sneaking and settling into my mind, and soon enough I considered myself as nothing, absolutely nothing. And I—I was grateful, even, that he would love someone like me. Would _want_ someone like me. And he was possessive. So possessive. In—In bed, he always made sure I’d know I was _his_. Not his girlfriend, but his possession.”

Yang’s anger is now heating up the room. Everything about her is _burning_. Her gaze, her expression, her aura. It should terrify Blake, after Adam, but it doesn’t. Because this anger is justified, and controlled, and it bears a kindness Blake can’t explain but _feels_ as intensely as she’s feeling the heat radiating from Yang.

“He made it so that my only expectations in life were about him. He isolated me from my friends, _our_ friends, one at a time, from my parents even, until all that was left was him and my work. And I—I was alone, Yang. I was so alone, I—”

She chokes on a sob. In front of her, draped in her blazing wrath, Yang seems paralyzed. Blake can tell she’s desperate to run to her and hold her, but also terrified to scare her away. And Blake wants to tell her, come, touch me, embrace me, I won’t break, I won’t run away, but she can’t. Because what if it does scare her? What if it does make her run away?

“So, when he died, after five years of mental abuse, I felt so. fucking. happy. And so fucking sad. And confused, and guilty, and horrified. Because, fuck, Yang. How could I be happy that someone _died_? Someone I once loved, even? And how could I be sad that _he_ was gone, after everything he did to me? I had so many conflicted feelings, and so much guilt for each one of them. And that’s why I can’t have fun. Because of the guilt. Because he died, and I got to live, and I don’t deserve to enjoy myself or to feel relieved that he’s dead. And the worst part is that nobody understands. Because nobody knows. Nobody saw him for who he was, and I didn’t tell anyone what he did. My friends, the very few I had left after I—after _he_ isolated me from them, they were also his friends. And I couldn’t—I—”

Her voice breaks and tears roll on her cheeks. She suddenly struggles for air.

“Blake.” She looks at Yang. “You’re safe.”

She is. She is safe. She has been for a while, since he died, but she keeps forgetting. Blake wipes her tears off and nods.

“Sorry.” She blows a heavy sight. “Last night, and today at the restaurant, I—I had fun, Yang. I truly did. For the first time in I don’t know how many years. But I’m a mess, and I don’t know what you’re expecting from me, and I have nothing to offer, and—”

“Blake.” Yang is smiling. It’s small, still stiffened with anger, but genuine and heart-warming. “I’m not expecting anything from you. I just want you to enjoy your time here. That’s the only thing I can do for you right now. I want to show you that it’s okay to take a bit of time for yourself. Do you think we could do that? One day at a time?”

Blake sniffs. She hopes it’s cute and not gross. She hopes Yang still wants her.

“Okay. We could do that.”

“Perfect. Now let’s go to bed.”

*

They turned off the lights a while ago, but Blake can’t find any sleep. She’s attuned to Yang’s respiration, slow and quiet. The sound comforts her. She expected the guilt to strangle her after she finally talked about Adam, but she feels surprisingly alright. Light, even. She told her story. She told her fucking story, and she’s okay. Yang didn’t leave, didn’t judge, didn’t doubt her words. Maybe, just maybe, Blake could tell her story to others too. To Weiss, who always suspected something and always stood by her, no matter what, no matter Blake’s silence. To Ilia, who worshiped Adam and still mourns him to this day, and who was nothing but an amazing and supporting friend to Blake after his death. To Sun, who has always been a loyal listener despite his goofy attitude. Yeah, maybe she could tell them. And maybe, just like Yang, they wouldn’t go away. Maybe they would believe her. Maybe they would finally understand everything she’s been through with Adam, before and after he died.

The mere thought of opening up to her friends brings tears to her eyes. The world seems so vast, all of a sudden. Full of so many great possibilities. She fidgets in her bed. Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

“Are you awake?” Yang whispers, and it sends shivers down Blake’s spine.

All of this, all of her excitement, she owes it to her.

“I am.”

“Can I come over and give you a hug?”

Blake’s heart leaps at the husky words. Is Yang trying to comfort her or to make a move on her? Whatever the answer, Blake can’t be that open, can she? Even if she wants to. She really, _really_ wants to. But Yang needs to know Blake won’t do as she pleases. She needs to know she’s strong, and independent, and able to take care of herself. All lies, but it’s the only way she’d feel like a match to the blonde goddess lying in bed less than three feet away from her.

“I don’t need a hug, Yang.”

Her voice travels, low and not as confident as she wished.

“Okay, _fine_ ,” Yang whines, and it draws a smile from Blake’s lips. “Then can _you_ come over and give _me_ a hug?”

Blake laughs. “So now I’m the one that has to get up and console you?”

“Well, yeah. You might be fine, but you told me a pretty heavy story and now I feel down. Take responsibility for it.”

“I’m not responsible for your mushiness,” Blake snorts.

She already knows she’ll cave in. She just wants to make Yang work for it.

“It’s called compassion. You should try it sometime! Right now, for example.”

Blake hears the playful smile brightening Yang’s face, and she can’t help but picture her lips, dark, full, slightly parted, slightly wet. And just like that, the want is back.

“Dammit,” she unconsciously lets out in a breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. I’m coming.”

Blake slides off of her sheets, stands up, takes a few steps in the dark. What the fuck is she doing? Is she really about to get in bed with Yang? _A woman_? Just after talking about Adam for the first time in her freaking life?

“Come on, Blake. Don’t make a girl waiting!”

Blake giggles. She fucking giggles. And so, since she’s too far gone already, she decides not to care anymore. She sits on the edge of the bed and, slowly, she lies on her side. She can barely see Yang in the shadows, but she feels her. Her warmth, her breath, her.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she confesses in a hoarse murmur.

“And I can’t believe it was that easy to get you in my bed,” Yang counters, grin audible.

She’s so _smug_ , Jesus. Not that Blake minds, but Yang doesn’t need to know that.

“You’re such an arrogant jerk,” she accuses, voice falsely outraged, and Yang chuckles. “If you can’t behave, I’ll leave.”

A hand on her wrist stops her as she’s sitting up. It’s soft and electrifying.

“Stay, please.” And there they are. Those exact same words Yang said last night, with that exact same hint of plea. Except tonight, it’s not about staying in a crowded street to dance for hours. It’s about staying in a narrow bed, alone with a girl so attractive Blake has to reconsider her whole fucking sexuality.

“You’d better behave,” she warns as she’s lying down on the mattress again.

“I’ll be a good girl. A _very_ good girl.”

Yang’s hand still rests on her wrist, and it’s not enough. Blake needs more. So much more.

“Big spoon or little spoon?” Yang whispers, and the question throws Blake off; she can’t recall ever having a choice.

She takes a few seconds to think about it. Yang pressed behind her, her arms around her waist, her breath on her neck, her hands free to roam wherever they want. Fuck.

“Little spoon,” Blake blurts.

“You really hope I won’t behave, uh?”

“Careful, or this hug will be over before it even starts.”

“Ugh, _fine_. Turn over.”

Blake obeys. She tries her best to ignore how that order sparked a wild fire in her lower stomach. It’s scary, really. How _not scared_ she is when Yang takes charge. She’s resting on the edge of the bed, hands tucked under her head, breath short with anticipation. She hears Yang getting closer, before feeling her. And, _oh_. Oh, fuck. This was a _terrible_ idea.

Yang is everything but shy, pressing so strongly against her Blake can feel _all of her_. She might have imagined it before, but reality shatters her expectations. There’s her wet breath on her ear, sending shivers to her whole body at every expiration. Her chest against her back, so soft, so generous, so freaking appealing. Her stomach against her lower back, hugging her perfectly, as if they came from the same mold. Her crotch against her ass, warm, so fucking warm. Her legs against her own, bare and long and slightly moving. Her scent. Fuck, her scent. She smells like the sun. Like warm sand, warm stone, warm wood. And there’s her hands, one gently stroking Blake’s hair, the other slowly sliding up and down on her hip.

“Are you comfortable?” Yang whispers in her ear.

Blake gasps. Bites her lip so that the moan building in her throat would stay there, silent, repressed.

“I am,” she eventually breathes. “You?”

“Me too.” Yang glides her hand from Blake’s hip to Blake’s arm, and she trails a lazy finger on her burning skin. “We fit.”

They do. They really do. Blake can’t remember the last time a hug felt so right. Sensual. Safe.

“I think I needed that,” she confesses in a timid whisper.

Yang holds her tighter, buries her face in her neck. Her lips graze her skin and Blake shivers. Her heart throbs violently. She feels dizzy.

“I want to kiss you,” Yang murmurs, and Blake’s heart sinks in her stomach.

“You said you’d behave.”

She hopes Yang doesn’t. She hopes she’ll suddenly press her flat on the mattress, tear her clothes off and fuck her until she loses her damn mind.

“I know. I will. I just wanted you to know.”

Fuck. Kiss me. Bite me. Take me. But Blake knows she won’t. Yang is letting her in charge, giving her the control she was cruelly deprived of for years. She shows respect and consideration, and, really, Blake shouldn’t feel so frustrated right now. She should take action. She should listen to her body (burning, aching, so fucking wet) and kiss Yang until the sun rises, but she can’t. Not tonight, at least.

Silence lingers between them. Little by little, she relaxes in Yang’s arms. She’s starting to appreciate the embrace for what it is, without any expectations of a follow-up, just a warm hug filled with kindness and care.

“Yang?”

“Hm?”

“Can I sleep here tonight?”

“You can do whatever you want, Blake.”

Yang’s words are honest, as everything about her. They fall back into a comfortable silence. Yang is still caressing her arm and her hair. It soothes her. _How gentle_ , Blake thinks as she once again drifts into a peaceful sleep.


	3. Day three

Yang slept poorly, to say the least. Blake clung to her all night, nuzzling up against her every single time she tried to move, and her breath brushed her neck for hours, tickling and tantalizing. Yang spent the night either half-asleep, sailing very vivid—and erotic—dreams, or fully awake, shamelessly fantasizing about the slender girl tightly cuddling her.

It was hot, uncomfortable, exhausting, and absolutely perfect.

Now, Yang is watching her sleep. Blake managed to tuck the photographer’s arm under her neck to use it as a pillow, and she’s curled up on the bed, peaceful, stunning under the delicate morning light. Her tank top rode up during the night, partially revealing her toned stomach and curvy hips, and Yang’s fingers itch to trace the smooth contours of her body.

She still can’t believe everything that happened last night, how open and vulnerable Blake accepted to be, how much she trusted her, with her past and her body. Because for her, even a hug is a big deal.

“Hmmm—”

Blake rolls between Yang’s arms and opens her eyes. Confusion blurs them for a few seconds, as she’s trying to remember why she hasn’t slept in her bed, and Yang smiles kindly at her.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Blake finally looks at her and a soft expression lightens her face. “How do you look so beautiful in the morning,” she murmurs, voice raspy and quite frankly heavily provocative. “Really, how? You’re so—” She lifts a sleepy hand and slides a gentle finger on Yang’s cheek. “ _So_ beautiful.”

Blake has no idea, hasn’t she? How fucking _sexy_ she sounds, looks, smells, feels. How she literally tortures Yang with those words and gestures, how wet she makes her, how hard the photographer has to fight the urges to ferociously crash her lips on hers, to rip her clothes off, to bite her neck, to touch, kiss, lick her everywhere. _God_ , Yang wants her so badly.

“That’s some intense look you have there,” Blake chuckles, and _dear lord_ , how can someone be so erotic and adorable at the same time? “What are you thinking about?”

Yang leans forward, in a slow and controlled movement, enough that their noses brush against each other, enough that she hears Blake’s sharp intake of breath.

“I’m thinking about how fucking hot you must be when you moan.”

“Jesus, fuck.”

The whisper, quivering and barely audible, ignites a roaring fire in Yang’s lower parts. That, and the way Blake suddenly clenched the sheets into a tight fist.

“I want you, Blake,” Yang murmurs. She shifts on the bed, straddles her and places two firm hands on each side of her head. “I thought about it all night. About you. About _this_.” Her hair falls from each side of her face, like a golden cascade sheltering them from the rest of the world. “I want you,” she repeats, and by the way Blake looks at her right now, with so much _hunger_ , there’s absolutely no doubt she wants her back.

“How?” Blake asks with a gravelly voice. “How do you want me?”

Oh, she wants to _talk_. Fine. Yang can talk. Yang is _good_ at talking.

“Like this. Laid on your back. Your hands scratching my shoulders, your mouth on my ear as you pant and whimper and tell me how good I feel.”

Blake’s lips part. Ravishing. Inviting. Oh, they’d look so good around Yang’s finger.

“I want you on your knees,” she continues. She draws Blake’s jawline with her index, hypnotized by the gold storm awakening in her eyes. “I want you on all four.”

Yang feared Adam’s influence. She thought, maybe, Blake would reject the power plays. But Blake doesn’t. Her stare is _begging_ Yang to keep going, her breath quicker, heavier. Yang places her knee between Blake’s legs and pushes against her center. Under her, the other woman gasps. Bites her lip. Raises her chin.

“You’re used to being in charge, uh?” Blake breathes, defiant. “To give orders to pretty girls. To be obeyed.”

She slowly starts rocking her hips, sliding her crotch on Yang’s bare thigh, never tearing her eyes away from hers, and _fuck_. Yang is about to lose her mind. She can feel how wet Blake is under her panties, and all she wants is to tear them and bury her head between the brunette’s legs. Blake slightly lifts her head up, and their faces get so close Yang thinks she’s going to kiss her.

“That won’t do for me,” Blake purrs, giving her hips a hard thrust that almost drags a moan out of Yang.

“Fuck,” she mutters instead.

She wasn’t expecting that. Blake taking control, with a few words, a few moves, Blake _grinding_ against her, Blake using her for her own pleasure. She wasn’t expecting it, but she fucking loves it.

“If we’re going to do this,” Blake continues while sliding a steady hand on Yang’s lower back, “we’re doing this my way.”

And then, Blake flips her over and Yang finds herself flat on her back. In one fucking go. Blake straddles her, grabs her wrists and pins her against the mattress with a strength Yang would have never imagined.

“Oh my fucking god,” is all she can slur.

She’s never been this aroused in her entire life. Her underwear is drenched, her nipples are so hard they hurt, and her hips are twisting on their own, looking for pressure, release, _anything_ against Blake’s body. Blake leans forward, towering over her, gorgeous and pleased and menacing.

“It’s as you said.” She keeps bending over Yang, until their lips graze each other. “I should have some fun.”

There’s nothing between their mouths but a thin layer of hot air. Yang can’t close this non-existent and yet infinite distance. Last night, she promised she’d behave, and this, kissing, is a line she won’t cross. So Blake has to do it. She has to. Jesus fuck, _she has to_.

“Kiss me,” Yang rasps.

“Hmmm, I wonder. Good things are worth waiting for.”

“I swear to god, Blake, if you don’t kiss me right now I’ll—”

The alarm clock suddenly goes off, and Yang freezes.

“Looks like we have to get up,” Blake says, a cruel smile on her delicate face, and she’s already straightening up.

“No, no, no. Blake. You can’t. Don’t go.”

“Watch me.”

And so she does. Yang watches Blake as she rises from the bed, turns off her alarm, gathers some clothes and disappears in the bathroom with one last lustful gaze.

Yang can’t move. She’s petrified, confused, soaked, unsated. She’s normally not the one in this position. She should be out there, showing her smug grin to the world while the pretty girl she ravished is still recovering in her bed. But no, not this time. Blake played her, and she played her well.

And the strangest thing of all isn’t how Blake managed to dominate her so easily, or how she seems so open to physical intimacy despite everything that happened to her. No, the strangest thing of all is that Yang’s heart skipped a beat more than once, and it usually never does.

***

Something changed. From the moment Blake woke up, the air felt different. Easier to breathe. Adam is still here, in the depths of her mind and heart, but _something changed_. It’s not like everything went away in one night but, somehow, for the very first time, it feels like it _could_ go away one day.

She owes it to Yang, for making it so easy to talk. She owes it to herself, for finally taking that leap of faith and allowing herself to trust again. She owes it to time, maybe, for slowly passing and putting distance between her and him.

“Man, that’s a beautiful view.”

Blake turns towards Yang, who’s staring at her with a playful smile. They’re walking on the beach, taking a large detour as Yang requested. The warm sea licks their bare feet, the wind ruffles their hair and the air smells like salt, wood fire and barbecue. Across the bay, the Sugarloaf Mountain paints the blue sky with its unmistakable shape.

“Are you trying to flirt with me?” Blake mocks. “Because this is a terrible pick-up line.”

“I’m not sure I need to pick you up, babe.” The pet name sends butterflies to Blake’s stomach. “You pretty much threw yourself at me this morning.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Blake ignores Yang’s snort, turns away and goes back to walking along the shore, mostly to hide her smile. She thinks about this morning. How good it felt to be in control, and how good it felt to have Yang on top of her. She wants it all. Whimpering and begging Yang, cocky and bossy Yang. She wants her, all of her, and she feels drunk with desire and anticipation. For the first time in her life, she’s driven by arousal, and she can actually _act_ on her needs. And she will.

But, for now, they have to work.

***

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Can’t you just trust me?”

“I’m asking because we already passed that street, like, ten minutes ago.”

“I just—I wanted to make sure, that’s all!”

“It’s alright, Blake. Not everybody can have a good sense of direction.”

Blake gives her a death stare, and Yang laughs. Gosh, this girl is so easy to annoy. But despite her exasperation, Blake still smiles, and those curled lips underlining the irritation flashing in her eyes are starting to grow on Yang.

“We’ll begin with the pictures and then I’ll interview him, if that’s alright with you,” Blake announces as she’s knocking at the front door of the house.

“You’re the boss,” Yang shrugs, already adjusting the settings of her camera.

The door—blue, sharply contrasting with the bright white of the walls—opens and reveals a dark-skinned young man wearing a black fedora with a turquoise ribbon. Yang has never talked to him, but she recognizes him thanks to his hat. It’s Flynt, one of the samba dancers Blake talked with yesterday and who agreed to let them into his home.

He greets them in Portuguese with a small smile, before inviting them in. While Blake and Flynt talk and spill words Yang thinks are out of this world, she curiously looks around the house. Abstract paintings with splashy colors cover the cracked walls, a worn rainbow-colored hammock swings lazily on the veranda, and dozens of small wooden sculptures hang from the beams, in the living room. Tiny cats, dogs, fishes, toucans, monkeys, frogs and sloths sway in the gentle wind, and Yang can’t help but smile at the sight.

“Can I take some pictures later?” she asks while pointing the decorations.

Across the living room, already sitting on a low wicker chair, Blake translates her question to Flynt. He nods and gives Yang a thumb up. “ _Sim, claro que pode._ ”

“Let’s do the portrait first,” Blake suggests.

She keeps chatting with Flynt while Yang takes a few pictures of him from different angles. At some point, she laughs, and it sparks something in Yang’s stomach. Blake seems so _different_ from yesterday. Relaxed. Less scared. It makes Yang happy, and proud, even if she shouldn’t be. It wasn’t because of her. She didn’t do anything. She just listened to Blake, and anybody could have done that. She was just there, at the right place, at the right time.

“I think I have everything I need,” she eventually announces while checking the screen on her camera. “I’ll leave you two be.”

She smiles at Flynt, who politely smiles back, before wandering into the living room. She’s taking pictures of the wooden animals, completely engrossed in her work, when someone suddenly smacks her ass. Yang yelps, jumps, covers her butt with her hand and gapes at the culprit, a teeny tiny elderly woman with glasses so large they almost mask her entire face.

“Did you just spank me?” Yang shrieks, more surprised than offended, and Blake literally chortles from across the room.

The old woman mutters something in Portuguese and walks past Yang without a single glance for her, her cane hitting the patterned tiles as she does.

“She says you were in the way,” Blake translates, still choking on a laugh. She holds her breath while the elderly Brazilian yells something from the kitchen, and turns to Yang with a very amused smile (on her very gorgeous lips). “She wants you to help her in the kitchen.”

“Who, me?”

“Well, she said ‘whiny blonde girl’, so I’m pretty sure she meant you.”

“I’m not whiny!” Yang protests, but already Blake is focusing back on Flynt, a somewhat victorious grin on her face. “Everybody would react like that after a surprised spank,” she grumbles while walking towards the kitchen.

She pokes her head around the door. The woman—so small her white hair barely sticks out of the counter—is busying herself in a closet, pulling out an enormous number of utensils while whistling chirpily. As soon as she spots Yang, she comes at her, grabs her hand and pulls her down, so strongly and quickly the photographer almost tumbles upon her.

“Oh, wow, you’re quite vigorous, aren’t you?” she can’t help but giggle, but she immediately swallows back her laugh when the woman snatches her by the cheeks and brings their faces so close Yang gets scared for a second.

The elder squints her eyes, scrutinizes her from every angle and, finally, she releases her and walks to the fridge while talking some Portuguese nonsense. Well, what the hell?? Yang chuckles again, because, really, _what_ is happening right now? She hears Blake’s calm voice ringing through the living room—she noticed that, somehow, she’s always attuned to it—and she can’t wait to tell her about that quirky little lady.

It’s weird, really. To want to _tell things_ to the girl she’s flirting with. To want to share something other than dirty words and torrid nights together.

The old woman calls out to her and, before fully realizing it, Yang finds herself with a knife in one hand and an onion in the other. She doesn’t need to speak Portuguese to get the message and, soon enough, she’s chopping the onion while the old lady is cleaning three huge fishes in the sink.

“I’m Yang, by the way,” she cheerfully says. The woman shakes her head. “Yang,” she repeats while pointing at herself.

“ _Oh! Maria_ ,” the Brazilian answers with a grin.

And, just like that, Yang made a new—and very odd—friend. They cook together for a while, one speaking Portuguese, the other English. They don’t understand each other, and yet their dynamic settles with a pleasant familiarity, Maria barking unintelligible orders and smacking Yang’s hand when she does something wrong, and Yang whining and laughing and drawing wild but kind smirks out of the elderly woman.

It takes her a while to notice Blake, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed and an amused smile on her face, looking so freaking dazzling Yang almost chops off her own finger. She clears her throat and focuses on her task.

“Did you finish your interview?” she asks without looking at the breathtaking girl standing behind her.

“We did. Flynt went back to work. He said his grandmother insisted on making us lunch.”

Yang hears Blake taking a few steps in the kitchen, and soon enough she appears in her field of vision. She’s not doing anything, really. Just standing there and talking warmly with Maria. She’s not doing anything, so why does Yang’s stomach churn, why does her mouth dry, why does her heart race?

And because she really doesn’t want to find an answer she already dreads, Yang takes a deep breath, cools her head and focuses on cooking instead.

***

Maria is quite the colorful character, to say the least. Every single thing she says is either disturbingly wise or just disturbing. She speaks her mind, the way someone who’s lived a full and hectic life would, and Blake particularly enjoys how much she likes to tease Yang.

“She asked if you’re married, because, and I quote, the way you’re handling those fishes would scare anyone away.”

She can’t hide her laugh, especially after seeing Yang’s half-shocked, half-entertained expression.

“I swear, that woman,” Yang mutters but genuinely smiles nonetheless. “No, I’m not married, I’m in fact very single, and I think I’m handling those fishes pretty well thank you!”

“You’re butchering them,” Blake mocks. She tries to ignore the leap her heart made when she heard Yang was single, and translates her words to Maria. She snorts at her answer and turns back to the photographer. “She asked if it’s by choice or because of your flagrant lack of delicacy.”

“Man, I can’t get a break today!” Yang whines once again, but Blake knows it’s just a façade. Yang is enjoying the conversation, the retorts and the sass, and when she laughs, it’s open-hearted. “Well, if she must _absolutely_ know, it’s been by choice so far.”

When Blake speaks back to Maria, she tries not to think too hard about that answer. Because, really, Yang’s love life is none of her business.

Right?

*

This is one of the best meals Blake has eaten in her life, if not the best, and she makes sure Maria knows it. Yang doesn’t hide her ecstasy either, rolling her eyes at every bite, and the three women spend their lunch talking, teasing, laughing and feasting on the grilled fishes.

Somehow, it’s hard to say goodbye. When they pass the front door, Yang removes her necklace and hands it to Maria, who grabs the little heart in flames with curious eyes.

“My little sister made it for me,” she explains with a soft voice, and Blake interprets as she speaks. “She’s very crafty. It’s not an animal, but it’s carved in wood. You can hang it with the other figurines, if you like it. That way, you’ll remember us by.”

For a long time, Maria stares at the necklace. She then closes her hand and presses it against her chest.

“She’ll cherish it,” Blake translates as the old woman murmurs her thanks. “She’s happy we crossed her path.”

“Me too,” Yang smiles.

They embrace their host, say their goodbyes and, as they walk away, Blake can’t tear her eyes away from Yang. Does she realize how touched Maria was? How gentle she is?

“Why a heart in flames?” Blake asks as they follow a narrow path beneath huge and shady trees, just outside Maria’s house. “Your necklace. Why is it shaped like this?”

“Ruby thought it suited me. I—Hm, I can get really angry, sometimes.”

She sounds almost apologetic. Is she thinking Blake will compare her with Adam? Because there’s no way in hell she would. Yang’s anger, so protective, so caring, is _nothing_ like his.

“But she always says that I have a good heart,” she continues. “It’s just that, sometimes, I get _too_ passionate. So, Ruby made me a heart bursting in flames.”

“It does suit you. I think it’s very beautiful.”

“Oh,” Yang breathes. She slows down, stops in the middle of the path. She seems so shy, all of a sudden, scratching the back of her head with a hesitant hand. “Thank you.”

Blake simply smiles before resuming her course. A small stone wall colonized by ivy borders the paved street. A few white flowers grow between the cobblestones. Birds are chirping above them, and a delicate breeze ruffles the leaves of the nearby trees. It’s lovely, all of it.

When she hears a familiar click behind her, Blake turns around just in time to catch Yang lowering the camera she pointed at her.

“Sorry,” Yang murmurs. It’s genuine. Everything she does and says is genuine. “I can delete it if you want.”

Blake comes closer. She stops a few inches away from her, and slightly lifts her face to meet Yang’s eyes. Somehow, she just realized. There’s kindness in everything Yang does. It’s hidden behind her laughs, her jokes, her smiles, behind her teases and her flirtation, behind her anger, but it’s indubitably there. Yang cares. About everyone. About her sister, about Maria, about Blake, about the strangers that cross her path for not even a few minutes. Her humor is a weapon she fires against loneliness, to help others, to bring them joy or relief in whatever little capacity she can. There was kindness in the way she gave Maria her necklace. There was kindness in the way she didn’t kiss Blake this morning, and in the way she made sure Blake knew how badly she craved that embrace. There was kindness in the way she made her open up last night, in the way she listened, in the way she cared, and, really, there was kindness in every single gesture and word Yang offered since they first met in the plane.

“Blake?”

Yang looks at her with concerned eyes. Blake grabs the camera strapped to her neck and places it to her side.

“Don’t talk,” she whispers.

And she kisses her.

Yang’s lips—salty, silky—cool her own, her scent wraps her like she’s bathing in the sun, and there’s nowhere else Blake would rather be, nothing else she’d rather do. Kissing Yang is the best decision she’s ever made, and she needs to convey all of that, all of those emotions and sensations to her.

So, Blake kisses her softly, with delicateness, because she needs her to understand how valuable she is. When Yang faintly moans against her lips, Blake kisses her with more strength, more passion, because her body awakens and she needs her to know how excited she makes her feel. And when Yang grabs her hips and slides her tongue between her lips, she kisses her as if it was the last thing she’ll ever do, because she needs Yang to know how much she wants to take her, possess her, give her everything she is.

Blake grabs her by the waist and pushes her against the stone wall—careful of hurting neither her nor the camera. Yang huffs against her mouth, their teeth clash, their fingers scratch their clothes and skin. They press against each other so urgently Blake doesn’t know where her own body ends and where Yang’s begins.

It’s heated, violent even. There are sharp teeth biting her lips, short nails digging in her back and threatening groans scraping her ears. And yet, she feels safe in her arms. She feels like a fucking person again, with valid desires and valid emotions. She feels like she’s kissing the hottest, kindest human in the world, and maybe she really is.

Blake is the one to break their embrace. She doesn’t know where she finds the strength to pull away, but she does. Because if she didn’t, she would have melted in Yang’s arms. She would have lost her reason and begged her to take her back to their hotel room, to wreck her until she lost her voice. But they can’t. They have appointments for the rest of the afternoon and a parade to cover tonight. They won’t have a moment to themselves before late that night, and as much as Blake resents this right now, she needs to put her job first.

So, she steps away, body painful with want, heart in her throat, head in the clouds. Yang looks so stunned—so stunning—with her parted rosy lips, her dark eyes, her messy hair flowing on her shoulders. God. Blake wants to kiss her again.

Her ringtone tears her attention away, and she picks up her phone. It’s Weiss.

“Hey! I didn’t hear from you since your plane landed. How are things going?”

“Well—” Blake glances at Yang, still leaning against the wall, panting heavily, a finger caressing her swollen lips and astonishment filling her lilac eyes. “It’s going well. Really well, actually.”

“Did you manage to do everything you wanted so far?”

Blake now stares intensely at Yang. “Not everything, no. But I’m getting there.”

“Alright, good. What about Yang? Are you two getting along well?”

Blake lifts a hand and caresses Yang’s chin with her fingertip. Yang releases a sharp breath. “Yeah. We get along well. She’s fun to be around.”

Yang grins, a playful—and dangerous—spark flashing in her purple gaze, and _oh,_ Blake is going to regret this, isn’t she?

“Did you just say that she was _fun_?” her boss sasses her, but Blake can’t answer. Yang wrapped her lips around her finger and, oh, fuck. _Her tongue_. “Who are you and what have you done with my reporter?” Weiss falsely panics at the other end of the line.

“I see you haven’t lost your brilliant sense of humor,” Blake mocks, voice composed. She slowly pushes her finger deeper into Yang’s mouth, and the more it goes, the wetter she gets. Jesus fuck. “But yes, she’s fun. And we met some really interesting people too.”

Yang starts sucking her languidly, never breaking eye-contact, taking her three knuckles deep with such a fucking _lewd_ stare. All of this is fucking lewd, really. Yang is sucking her finger off in the middle of the street while she’s talking to her boss, for fuck’s sake. And, somehow, the lewdest thing of all is that Yang is a freaking _girl_ , and Blake doesn’t give a fuck anymore.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Weiss says, tone shaped with an audible smile.

“How is Ilia doing?”

“She’s good! She got out of the hospital yesterday and she already wants to go back to work.”

“That’s Ilia for you.”

Yang is working miracles, her tongue swirling around her finger while she increases and decreases the suction in a steady rhythm, and Blake can’t help but wonder. How would it feel around her nipple? How would it feel _down there_?

“I looked at your schedule earlier,” Weiss continues. She doesn’t have a single clue, does she? “Tonight will be busy for you.”

“It will. It’s the first major parade of the carnival and I want to go behind the scenes.” Yeah, Weiss doesn’t have a single clue. Of what her reporter and her photographer will be doing tonight, as soon as they come back to the hotel. “I think it’ll end around 4 or 5 am.” Of how hard Blake is going to take Yang, of how much she’ll make her moan. Yang has no idea either.

“Thank god you don’t have any appointment tomorrow morning.” Yang slowly glides her finger out of her mouth, but her gaze still burns so brightly it turns Blake on even more. “Well, I’m glad everything is going smoothly,” Weiss sighs. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“I will. Thank you.”

“And say hi to Yang for me!”

When she hangs up, Blake’s hands are shaking. “Weiss says hi.”

Yang takes a step forward, and suddenly she’s all Blake can see, hear, smell, feel. “Next time,” she murmurs in her ear, “ _I’ll_ talk to her on the phone. And I’ll make sure to keep your mouth busy.”

Fuck. Blake hopes it’s a promise Yang intends to keep.

*

When they head back to the city center, Blake spots a young man riding a bike, crimson hair in the wind. She thinks about Adam, but she doesn’t hear him. Her mind is too busy lusting after Yang to listen to his distant whispers.

*

The parade starts at 9 pm. Blake and Yang wander in the parking lot behind the Sambadrome—the huge venue in which the samba schools will parade all night long. There, thousands of dancers are changing and making final adjustment to their costumes. It’s crazy, how contrasted all of this is. The parades are all about extravagance and joy and perfection, in the clothes, the decoration, the dances, the music. And yet, behind the scenes, people are getting dressed between cars and sitting on the dirty sidewalks of some back alley reeking of smoke and urine, in order to wait their turn away from prying eyes. Ambulances are parked nearby; as Blake found out when asking a paramedic, it’s common for some dancers to collapse during the performance, due to stress and dehydration.

_This_ is the story Blake wants to tell. All of those unexpected things happening behind the curtains, telling such a different tale from the one unfolding in the Sambadrome. She wants to write about the people under the costumes. About their struggle, all year-long, to adjust their daily life with practice, to save enough money to buy their clothes for the carnival. She wants to talk about the families supporting the dancers and musicians, no matter what, just like Maria is supporting Flynt, in her odd and prideful way. She wants to show past the glitter and the feathers and the smiles and the colors. And, somehow, with Yang by her side, she knows she will.

Because Yang gets it. And Yang can do it. She can capture those moments, those worn faces and proud grins, those imperceptible souls dancing where the eye can’t see. She has enough skills, enough humanity for that.

They never get alone together, but they share more heated glances and threatening smiles than Blake can count. The night passes at the strange rhythm of the distant drumrolls and cheers, of the thousands of performers coming and going like waves sweeping the shore, of the provocative promises Yang whispers in her ear. “I can’t wait for us to be alone.” “I keep thinking about our kiss.” “ _God_ , you’re driving me insane.”

When the parades finally end, around 5:30 am, Blake doesn’t know how she managed to survive the night. She’s exhausted. Excited. Dizzy and impatient. She wants her bed and she wants Yang.

As they walk back to their hotel room, the sun rises at the horizon, chasing the night away, reddening the deep-blue sky with its still fresh beams. The last drumroll quiets in the distance, and the birds awaken as the city finally goes to sleep.

Somehow, it’s already the beginning of a new day.


	4. Day four

When they close the door and finally find themselves alone in their room, they share a long, questioning look. They’re both drained, ghosts of their usual fierce selves, and even if lust has never, not once, left the gold of Blake’s eyes, Yang knows she doesn’t have the strength to act on it. Truth be told, Yang can barely stand on her own tired legs.

“Let’s go to sleep,” she offers.

Blake frowns, hesitant, and finally nods. “I suppose it’s the wisest thing to do,” she mutters, audibly disappointed.

Yang chuckles. “Gosh, Blake. You’re so cute.” She takes a step forward and closes the distance between them. “And hot.” She leans forward, mouth to her ear. “And tired.”

Blake sighs and drops her forehead on Yang’s shoulder. It’s endearing, and her heart flutters.

“I really wanted this,” Blake whispers.

“Me too. I’ve been wanting this all day.” Yang slides a hand around Blake’s waist to bring her closer, and gently strokes her hair. “Honestly? I’ve been wanting this since we first met.” It’s so intimate. So different from what she’s used to. It comforts her, and that comfort scares her. But because it’s Blake, soft, brave and vulnerable Blake, Yang doesn’t feel like running away. “It will be better if we wait for tomorrow, I promise.”

“I know,” Blake half-whines against her shoulder.

Yang smiles. “Come on, let’s go to sleep.”

Blake nods, disappears a few minutes in the bathroom and gets out in her pajamas—a loose tank top and skimpy shorts revealing too much skin for Yang’s sake. When she turns towards the photographer’s bed, Yang snorts.

“Oh no, babe. No way. You’re too clingy and I need some sleep. Go to your own bed.”

“I’m not clingy!”

“It was like sleeping with an overly affectionate cat.”

Blake laughs. “Fine.”

She drops flat on her own mattress and stares at Yang, who grabs her own sleepwear before getting into the bathroom to change and brush her teeth. When she comes back, Blake is already fast asleep, and Yang can only smile tenderly at the sight.

***

When Blake wakes up, Yang’s bed is empty. The bathroom door hangs wide open, and no soul breathes in the room besides her own. Panic swells and constricts her chest. Yang is not here. Yang left. Yang might not come back. Blake sits on the edge of her bed. Her heart pounds painfully, her stomach churns, her head spins a little. It’s okay. You’re okay. She didn’t leave you. Because why would she? Why would Yang leave her, a girl she barely knows and with whom she has a non-existent relationship? There’s nothing to leave, really. Yeah. Yang can’t leave Blake, because Blake means nothing to her. That’s what she holds onto, this bitter truth that still hurts less than believing they had something and, somehow, Yang freaked out in the middle of the night and decided to put a stop to all of this.

So, Blake calms down, one deep breath at a time. It’s only when she gets up on her now weak legs that she notices the piece of paper on Yang’s pillow.

 **Be back in a minute**  
**– Yang**

Blake slouches on the bed and huffs a nervous laugh. Now, she realizes how stupid she is. For immediately freaking out over such a small thing. For being so _attached_ to a girl she met three days ago. For believing Adam was going away. Because it’s him, all of this. Him telling her she’s worthless, telling her she will never be good enough, telling her that no matter who she opens up to, they’ll leave her eventually. After all, _he_ did. He left her. And how awful is it that she resents him for dying, like it’s something he fucking chose? How fucked up is it that she blames him for leaving, when him staying meant her life was hell? How fucked up is it that she _likes him dead_ , and yet—

Yet.

Blake furiously wipes the lone tear rolling on her cheek. Yang would do good to run away. No matter the relationship—friends, fuck buddies, whatever else—, Blake is a disaster waiting to happen.

So, she stands up. She takes a long and cold shower, puts on her white summer dress, opens her computer and starts working on her notes.

When Yang comes back, not ten minutes later, Blake barely looks at her.

“Oh, good, you’re awake!” she exclaims while closing the door with her foot, her hands full. “You really sleep like a rock. You didn’t even hear me when I took my shower this morning!”

“Where were you?”

Blake tries to keep a light tone, to be polite, but bitterness cuts her tongue as she speaks. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots the short freeze in Yang’s moves. It lasts one second top.

“I got us breakfast,” Yang answers, voice cheerful, as she’s laying a few things on the desk. Blake can’t help but glance at her from her bed. “Fresh juices,” she shakes two huge cups with a bright smile, “and a mango coming straight from the local market,” she presents the fruit as if it’s the most precious treasure on this planet. “I also had to blackmail the kitchen staff of the hotel to get a plate and a knife, but it’s totally worth it. Okay, here.” Yang hands her a cup filled with a thick and pink juice. “It’s guava. You said you wanted to try.”

Blake did say that. On their first day, while she was absentmindedly looking at a market stall on their way to an interview. She said it to herself—she whispered it, really—and Yang heard. Yang remembered.

“And if you don’t like it, mine is passion fruit.”

Blake had it yesterday and she loved it. Another thing Yang didn’t miss. Because Yang doesn’t miss anything.

“Thanks,” is all Blake can murmur before taking a sip of her juice. “Guava’s good. It’s really good.”

“Perfect.”

Yang beams and gets back to her mango. She grabs the knife, seems to consider her options, and finally leans forward and sinks the blade into the fruit. Blake can’t see her face. Her gaze falls from Yang’s neck, revealed by her messy bun, to her exposed shoulders and arms, strong, flexed.

“So,” Yang casually says, and Blake already knows what’s following. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she almost spits, and Yang snorts.

“Really? Because yesterday you looked like you were about to eat me alive, and now you’re—” She turns around, dripping knife in her hand, and she gives her a gentle look. “Sad. Scared.”

She goes back to her task, almost as if she was giving her some privacy by avoiding the stunned look on her face. And because Blake can’t say anything, too dumbfounded to speak, she continues, “You do know that we don’t have to do anything, right? It’s okay if you’re having second thoughts about—about us.” Her tone wavers a bit on that last word, as if she’s not sure herself of what “us” means. “We don’t need to have sex to enjoy ourselves.”

“That’s not it,” Blake blurts out. She sighs. She can’t even fight her own lust, can she? “It has nothing to do with—that.” She vaguely gestures at the word, even though Yang can’t see her.

“Then talk to me, Blake. What’s wrong?”

This time, she turns around and her lilac gaze pierces Blake to the core. _God_ , isn’t she gorgeous right now.

“It’s stupid.”

“I’m stupid too. Tell me.”

“I—I thought you left. For a moment, before I saw your note. I thought you realized how fucked up I was and just left. And _I know_ how crazy that sounds. Your stuff was still there, and we’re nothing, you and I, not even friends, but I—I—”

“Blake.”

She immediately quiets. Yang sets the knife on the desk and moves towards the bed.

“Deep breath.”

Blake obeys, eyes fastened on Yang’s kind smile. She’s always so calm, always cautious not to scare her away.

“Where did I go this morning?”

The question throws her off, but not as much as Yang leaning forward and getting their faces so close Blake forgets to breathe altogether.

“You went out to buy juices and a mango.”

“I went out to bring you breakfast in bed,” Yang corrects, leaning even closer. She smells like mango. “Because I thought it’d make you happy.”

“I—”

Yang cuts her off with a heated kiss. Her lips, hasty, greedy, set Blake’s body ablaze, and she moans, grabs Yang’s face between her hands and ferociously kisses her back. When they finally break their embrace, they’re both panting.

“I’m not leaving,” Yang finally whispers.

She straightens up and goes back to her mango. And it makes Blake smile like a stupid teenage girl, that, this idiotic detail, the fact that Yang went out of her way to get her a damn fruit and that she’s dead set on preparing it for her to eat.

Only when Yang suddenly curses does Blake notice the debacle going on over there. She pushes her computer aside, gets up, takes a few light steps to reach Yang and literally chortles at the sight.

Yang made a complete mess, juice running down her forearms and flooding the desk. She butchered the poor mango, skin half-peeled and flesh half-crushed, and Blake just can’t stop laughing.

“Oh my fucking god, Yang, how awful are you at cooking?”

“I mean, it’s not my strong suit, but I can get by,” she sheepishly mumbles, and it’s not good that Blake’s heart leaped because of how adorable Yang is, is it?

“Give me that,” Blake orders while grabbing the knife from her hand. “Jesus, this is a massacre. You’re lucky Maria isn’t here!”

“Man, she’d kick my butt.”

Blake laughs again. This is surreal. Not even five minutes ago, she was falling back into _that place_ , that tenebrous place of unworthiness, feeling the way Adam wanted her to feel, alone, undeserving of love, affection, of anybody else’s attention but his. And now, she’s laughing freely.

She works the mango as delicately as she can, under Yang’s apologetic gaze, and, somehow, she manages to salvage the fruit and to even make it presentable.

“There. Next time, just leave it to me.”

“Dammit. I feel so uncool right now.”

Blake snorts. “That’s because you are.”

“Way to thank the girl who brought you breakfast, Blake!” Yang snickers.

“Shut up and eat your mango.”

Yang pouts for half a second before indulging herself with the freshly prepared fruit, quickly followed by Blake. The flavor bursts into her mouth, and they both moan in unison at their first bite.

“Gosh. I should bring back a whole suitcase of those,” Yang hums. “Ruby would be so happy!”

Blake takes the plate and sits on the edge of her bed, promptly followed by Yang.

“You two seem really close.”

“We are! She can be a brat sometimes but I wouldn’t trade her for the world. We lived together our whole life. We even had our own place until very recently.” Yang sighs. “She moved out three months ago.”

“Do you feel lonely?”

“Sometimes, yeah. I mean, I get it. She wanted her independence, and I’m just her annoying and overprotective big sister.” She takes another piece of fruit and pops it into her mouth. “She still comes to my place often, but it’s not the same, you know.”

“And no girlfriend to fill the void, uh?”

“Yeah.” Yang glances at Blake, looking—nervous? Well, _that’s_ _new_. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

Blake urges another piece of mango in her mouth, just to have something to do, just to mask her confusion and sudden apprehension.

“I—” Yang swallows and darts her eyes to her feet. “I just want to be clear, before we do anything else, I mean _if_ we do anything else. I’m not the relationship kind of girl. And I’m sorry if I mislead you somehow, not that you seem misled! But just in case, I don’t want to get your hopes up— _god_ that sounds so presumptuous, sorry. I’m usually better at this.”

Blake sets the plate on her lap and sighs.

“Yang, my abusive ex-boyfriend died one year ago and I’m still recovering from that. I’m a workaholic who spends sixty hours a week in her office, and I discovered _very_ recently that I might not be so straight after all. My point is, I have a lot of things to figure out before being able to get into a relationship again. I wasn’t expecting anything from you.” Yang looks so relieved Blake can’t help but laugh. “I’m fine with this, whatever this is,” she adds in a soft voice.

Yang nods, smiles, grins. “Alright, good. But just so you know, as long as we’re in Rio, I’m yours and yours only.”

Blake chuckles and stares at Yang as she gets up and takes the now empty plate to wash it in the bathroom. Her laugh fades away. Because they only have three more days in Rio, and that means that this, _whatever this is_ , will very soon come to an end.

And if, for once, she’s being honest with herself, Blake really, really doesn’t want it to end.

***

_I’m yours and yours only._ Yang can’t believe she just said that. She’s absentmindedly washing the plate—for so long now she might dig a hole in it—, unable to go back there and face Blake. Because those words, _I’m yours_ , never crossed her lips before, never even crossed her mind. And yet, they fell out of her mouth so naturally, as if it was the most obvious truth in the world. It freaks her out. It truly, deeply freaks her out.

She only had the courage to say them because she knew they came with an expiration date. Three days. I’m yours for three days. She’s not committing to anything. She’s not taking any risk. Really. What a coward.

“I think the plate is clean now,” Blake teases from her bed.

Yang finally snaps out of it. When she gets out of the bathroom, Blake looks at her with an amused smile on her lips—her inviting, addicting lips. She’s stunning. She could bring the world to its knees with a single stare, a simple word, a subtle gesture. She resembles a goddess, with her floaty white dress sprayed around her as she’s sitting on the bed, with her silky dark hair framing her feline face, with her amber eyes stripping Yang bare.

“So,” Blake begins, amusement growing as she notices Yang’s fluster, “we don’t have any appointment before 5 pm.” She speaks innocently, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, never tearing her eyes away from Yang’s. “And I was thinking of some way to pass time.”

Oh. _Oh_. Yang takes a step further. She likes where this is going. “Were you, now?” She kicks her shoes off and sits on the bed, one hand buried in the ruffled sheets, the other itching to caress Blake’s cheeks, ears, lips. “So, how should we pass time?” she asks, voice low and slinky.

Blake leans forward. Her hair slides on her shoulder, revealing her slender neck. Her eyes dart to Yang’s mouth and she bites her lip.

“How about—” She lifts a hand and brushes a finger on Yang’s collarbone. The touch electrifies her body from head to toe.

“Hmm?” Yang purrs, slowly tilting her head, ready to kiss her, to kiss this gorgeous and tantalizing woman, to make her _hers_.

“How about,” Blake whispers again, and her breath, sweet and cold, rekindles the embers in Yang’s lower stomach, “you show me your pictures?”

Yang freezes and raises her eyebrows, completely taken aback.

“You want to _work_?”

“God no!” Blake giggles.

She’s so sexy and cute and endearing Yang can’t hold back any longer, and she hungrily smashes her mouth on hers.

***

Blake’s next words are swallowed by Yang’s urgent kiss and quickly replaced with desperate moans. They fall on the bed, Yang on top of her, kissing, groaning, biting, hands roaming on her arms and shoulders and neck, and Blake is liquifying under her touch.

“Fuck, Yang,” she gasps. “I—” She’s interrupted by impetuous lips sucking her own. “I meant—” She moans when Yang slides two strong hands on her waist. “I meant show me your real work. For your magazines.”

Yang gently bites the tip of her ear, and it sends a violent thunderbolt through Blake’s whole body. Jesus fucking Christ, how _good_ can this woman make her feel?

“I thought you weren’t interested,” Yang whispers in her ear before diving into her neck, kissing, licking, sucking the tender flesh and ripping Blake apart with pleasure and anticipation.

“I—I thought it would get us in the mood. Since it’s—nudes—”

“Hmmmm,” Yang hums. She crashes her lips on Blake’s once again, hands sliding down, down, down, and then under the hem of her dress, and then up, clenching her thighs, groping her ass, hard enough she’d leave an ephemeral mark, gentle enough it doesn’t hurt. “I like your way of thinking,” she finally murmurs. “But I don’t think we need nudes to _get in the mood_.”

“Wait, wait,” Blake suddenly breathes out while lifting herself on her elbows.

“What?”

Yang slightly straightens up, a genuine look of worry on her flushed face. Her hairband fell while they were kissing and her bun came undone, gorgeous curls now purring on her shoulders. She’s breathtaking.

“I need to wash my hands. They’re all sticky with mango.”

“Is that why you weren’t touching me?” Yang laughs, relieved. “You did seem less clingy than you usually are.”

“You don’t know how I _usually am_ ,” Blake retorts, a devilish smile on her lips as she leaves the bed.

She hurries to the bathroom, carefully washes her hands, comes back to the room. And then, she sees her. She truly sees her. All gold curls, playful smile, commanding eyes, sensuous curves, long legs, slender hands, all strength and beauty and kindness and lust. The embodiment of sensuality itself, laid on a bed, waiting for Blake. It’s like a punch in the guts. And the want, the fucking _want_ soars, and it burns, it burns her skin, her flesh, her soul, it burns her like it never has before. Because as much as Blake _needs_ to feel Yang inside of her, she knows she has to touch her first. She has to hear, see, taste her pleasure, if it’s the last thing she’ll ever do.

Blake suddenly remembers her first impression of her. Yang’s whole appearance seemed to _beg_ for attention. Now, more than ever.

“Are you enjoying the view, Blake?” Yang teases, an eyebrow cocked and a smirk at the corner of her lips.

“Take off your clothes,” is the only answer she gets.

Yang’s smile wavers under the command, and she takes too long to obey.

“Take off your clothes, Yang.”

Threat sharpens Blake’s tone, erasing her smile, lighting up a dangerous glint in her amethyst eyes. But despite her defiant glare and her chin raised high, Yang complies. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, she grabs the hem of her silky orange tank top and lifts it, revealing her visible abs, her black laced bra, her pale cleavage. When she drops the piece of cloth on the floor in a deliberate and provocative gesture, Blake’s lips twitch. But Yang doesn’t stop, oh, no. She puts on a show, unbuttons her jean shorts with a lascivious stare, shakes them off and throws them across the room while biting her lip outrageously, and Blake would laugh if she wasn’t _so_. _fucking_. _turned_ _on_. Nobody has ever had such an effect on her. And it’s not just because Yang is a devastatingly beautiful girl. It’s because Yang is Yang.

“Those too?” the blonde asks coyly as she points to her underwear.

“No.”

Blake’s heart pulses in her ears, in her stomach, between her legs. This is too much and barely enough. This is her jumping off a cliff and relishing the fall. She climbs on the bed, only to be greeted by an unruly blonde goddess who immediately tries to press her against the mattress.

“I told you,” Blake rumbles while catching her wrists and pinning her on the bed, and Yang doesn’t even bother to hide her lustful gasp, “if we’re doing this, we’re doing this my way.”

Yang doesn’t fight her. She could easily free herself from her grip and regain control. But she doesn’t. Because she doesn’t want to scare Blake, and, evidently, because _she_ _loves this_.

“Tell me, Yang,” Blake murmurs as she straddles her. “How many pretty women had the privilege to make you their obedient little girl?”

Yang groans and fidgets under Blake. It’s a perfect reminder of yesterday morning, except this time there won’t be an alarm to interrupt them.

“What about you, Blake?” she counters in a harsh breath. “How many pretty girls did you fuck like this?” As if she didn’t know the answer.

Blake leans forward. “None.” She catches her lips, slides her tongue against hers, kisses her messily, frantically, without any second thought. She leans back for a second, just long enough to murmur, “And I’m not fucking you yet,” before reclaiming Yang’s lips as her own.

Gosh, she should be terrified. She should be running away, as far as possible from this girl breaking down every single wall she built over the years. She should fear that intimacy, fear this red want burning in Yang’s eyes, fear her touch and her strength. But no. She’s diving headfirst into a great unknown, and she feels nothing but excitement in all its forms.

Her fingers clutch around Yang’s panties, almost on instinct, but she releases the fabric without pulling it. She’s overwhelmed. Dizzy. Impatient.

“Blake—I think—I think we should—talk—” Yang rasps, words cut every second by hungry kisses.

“Do you not want to do this anymore?”

“God, no, I want this, I want this so much,” Yang blurts.

“Then I’m not stopping. If you want to talk, talk. But I’m not waiting anymore.”

Blake punctuates her sentence with a sharp bite on Yang’s neck, and Yang moans, clasps her hands on her back, drags strong fingers on her skin.

“Okay, okay, fuck.”

Yang swears, and swears again when Blake leaves soft kisses on her collarbones, her upper chest, her cleavage rising at each of her heavy breaths. Blake slides her hand behind Yang’s back, against the mattress, fumbles until she finds her bra clasp and unfastens it.

“It’s just that—It’s your first time with a girl.”

“Hmmm,” Blake groans while she eagerly takes Yang’s bra off and tosses it behind her.

And, really, she’s at a loss of words. Because, _dear lord_. The more she discovers Yang, the more blown away she gets. Fuck. Her breasts are—are— _Jesus fuck_.

“And I know I can be hard to please—” Yang pants as Blake kisses the thin line between her breasts. “I just want you to know that—” She swipes a curious tongue around her nipple. “That—” And she sucks it. “Oh _, god_ —” Yang releases a harsh breath. “Fuck, Blake. What I want to say is that—It’s okay if I don’t come.”

Blake releases her nipple and arches an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“Really,” Yang puffs.

Blake’s fingers find their way back to Yang’s lacy underwear.

“We’ll see about that.”

And she roughly rips it off.

***

It would be a lie to say Yang didn’t prepare for this moment. She thought about it, cautiously, all morning while taking her shower and roaming the city in her obsessive quest for the perfect breakfast. Because she can’t afford to be careless, can she? Blake’s last relationship was a traumatic disaster, emotionally and physically, and she deserves gentle and caring touches, she deserves someone who’ll make her feel safe, who’ll guide her and tell her it’s okay, no matter what she does.

So, Yang prepared for this. Be patient. Don’t let your desire take over. Always make sure she’s alright. Always make sure she feels safe. Talk to her. Listen to her. Be there for her. _Show her_. Never push her. Never overwhelm her.

Let her take her time.

And now, as she’s watching her own panties fly across the room, she realizes that _she’s_ the one who’s about to be eaten alive, by the sultry, hungry, fiery black panther towering over her.

Blake grabs her ankles and tears her legs apart, and Yang moans at the rough gesture. She’s never been one to be tossed around, and yet she _fucking_ _loves it_. What the fuck, Blake. How controlling can you be.

“Shit,” Blake breathes. She’s staring at her, all of her, shocked and in awe, and Yang feels herself dripping on the sheets with arousal. “You’re so fucking sexy, Yang.”

She’s melting under Blake’s blazing, devouring glare. She wants her. Blake Belladonna fucking wants her.

And it drives Yang insane with desire.

***

Everything is new. The softness of Yang’s body, no matter how hard her muscles are, no matter how deep Blake goes. That sight, that fucking sight of her arching against the bed, lips parted, eyes shut, fists clenched on the sheets. The sounds escaping from her gorgeous mouth, those ragged pants and raspy moans, the way she whimpers when she wants more, the way she groans when she gets more. The scents, salty, sour, delicate and yet intoxicating Blake to the point she’d get lost for a second, in Yang’s neck, on Yang’s stomach, between Yang’s legs. Her taste. Her fucking taste.

“Harder,” Yang begs.

Blake takes her time. She’s sliding two slow fingers in and out, in awe with every single reaction she drags out of her. She’s containing herself, denying Yang the roughness she’s so desperately asking for, denying herself the loss of control she feels boiling inside, and boiling, and boiling, melting her muscles, her brain, her everything. She knows the moment she’ll cede, the moment she’ll give up the few restraints she’s holding on to, there will be no turning back. And _fuck_ , she’s real close to completely lose it.

“Blake, please,” Yang rasps.

Blake kisses her tenderly, on her inner thigh, her pubis, her clit. She swipes her tongue around it, once, twice, relishing _her fucking taste_ , marveling on the long moan slipping through Yang’s lips, savoring the way Yang’s fingers grasp her hair to pull her impossibly closer.

“Blake—”

No, she won’t yield. Not even to her name, the “a” lost in a shuddering breath, the “k” clicking around a heavy tongue. Blake fucks her cruelly slow, and the most mind-blowing part is that she feels her own pleasure gradually building between her legs. Not arousal. Pleasure.

Yang clasps Blake’s dress around the collar—she hasn’t even taken her own clothes off, Blake realizes—and pulls her up, eyes crimson with need and frustration and threat.

“I need you—” Yang angrily kisses her and grabs Blake’s hand, the one leisurely gliding within her. “—to fuck me—” She pushes it deep inside, in a rough strike, and her groan mingles with Blake’s. “—hard.” Yang guides her hand away, taking it almost completely out before slamming it back in a sharp breath. She’s needy, devastatingly sexy, and Blake can’t fight her anymore. And so, she loses control.

She roughly thrusts her fingers as deep as she can, as quickly as she can, and feels Yang’s nails scratch her arm in response. She fucks her hard and fast, moans with her, groans with her, cries with her, mind blurred with desire and pleasure, thoughts reduced to a basic, primal need to ravish Yang, to give her everything she wants and more, to fuck her until she forgets her own name.

Soon, every single one of Yang’s muscles tenses and she stops breathing, eyes shut, hands clenched around Blake’s arms. And when Blake gives her one last, violent shove, Yang breaks and collapses on the bed in a long, hoarse cry that steals Blake’s breath away.

Silence falls upon them, only shaken by their heavy pants, and time slows down, and down, and down, until it stops, until it’s just them, until the whole world becomes this, this room, these white sheets dragging on the wooden floor, this fade scent of mango still lingering in the air, these transparent curtains gently dancing under the wind’s caresses.

Blake looks at Yang and Yang looks at Blake. Time starts moving again, a bird chirping in the distant sky, a drop of water plopping in the bathroom sink, a hand taking hers. Yang sits up and presses a soft mouth on hers.

This kiss, unlike any of the others, is unhurried. It’s fond, easy and right. So right.

“Was I okay?” Blake finally whispers, doubt delicately creeping up as she’s hearing her thoughts again.

Yang sighs and rests her forehead on hers.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Why?” Blake murmurs, distracted by the way their noses gently brush.

“You just gave me one of the most intense orgasms of my whole life, and you still manage to doubt yourself.”

Blake chuckles. “How am I supposed to compare? I wasn’t there for any of your other orgasms.”

“Yeah, and that’s a fucking shame.”

She laughs again. It’s so easy. Everything is so easy. Talking, laughing, fucking. Things she dreaded for years, things she found terrifying and painful, things he took away and never gave back. And there they are, nestled in those bright, purple eyes. Blake thought Yang meant kindness, and strength, and fun, and trust, and lust.

Now, she’s starting to think Yang means freedom too.

***

Blake fucks her two more times after that. She doesn’t let Yang touch her, but it’s not out of fear. Yang reads it in her eyes. The awe, the curiosity, the excitement. Blake is looking at her, and she sees a whole new world. She’s exploring, discovering new forms, new sensations, new desires, travelling an unknow land, and each step is more thrilling than the last. She’s learning a new language, and Yang is eager to teach her its every word and nuance.

When they finally get out of the hotel, walking side by side under the sunlight, Yang itches to take Blake’s hand. It’s a scary feeling, one she chooses to ignore, just like she ignored her racing heart over the past four days.

They work hard through the dead of the night, and come back to their hotel exhausted from their day. Yang laughs when Blake dramatically lies down on her own bed with a snappy “I wouldn’t _dare_ disrupting your sleep once more!”. When they turn off the light, both tucked in their respective bed, Yang doesn’t resist more than one minute before slipping away and joining her under her sheets.

“Took you long enough,” Blake mumbles, and Yang ripostes with a fervid kiss that leaves them both breathless in the dark. Their arms and legs tangle, and they hold each other close in a comfortable silence.

Blake smells like jasmine. That night, Yang is the first to fall asleep.


	5. Day five

“I've always wanted to come to Rio.”

Blake glances at Yang. She’s looking at the buildings, a small smile on her lips—the same lips Blake lazily kissed this morning when she woke up, because they were there, magnetic, comforting, a place where she could get lost without fear or regret. The streets are busy, as usual, but most of the tourists and partiers are still recovering from their sleepless night, and Blake and Yang walk alone amongst the locals in the city’s historic downtown, under a gentle breeze and a biting sunlight. Their first appointment starts at 2, and Yang said she wanted to make the most of the day, dragging Blake out of the hotel with a sly smile and an apparently very strong resolve to not answer any of her questions.

Yang absently strokes a finger on the camera hanging on her chest, gaze drifting from buildings to passersby.

“When they hear ‘Rio’, people always think about the carnival, about the most colorful event of the world. But there’s so much more than that. It’s a crazy beautiful city, nestled between the mountains and the sea, with rain forests and a biodiversity to die for, and it’s also so full of traditions and history.”

God, Yang is _everything_. Magnificent, confident, caring, open, sexy, smart. And because Blake feels her throat clench with an unknown and unwelcome sensation, she decides to tease her rather than to stare at her with dazzled eyes.

“I hope you’re going somewhere with this.”

“You’re so impatient, Blake Belladonna.” Yang sets her eyes—purple, ardent, dangerous—on her, and Blake suddenly struggles for air. “It won’t do you any favor later tonight.” Her voice rumbles like thunder and each word carries a heavy roll, a threat, a promise.

Everything in Blake tenses with excitement and impatience. Yang slightly turns around and points at a gothic building situated further away on the street. Mighty, historic, it stands out from the rest of the area, its façade decorated with remarkable statues and ornaments.

“Do you know what it is?”

“No, I don’t,” Blake shrugs, trying to cover her sudden expectancy under a layer of nonchalance.

“It’s a library.”

Blake stares at the building, surprised, until Yang starts walking again. Soon enough, they stand in front of the entrance, and Blake finally notices the bold letters decorating the top of the façade. _Real Gabinete Portuguez de Leitura._ Royal Portuguese Cabinet of Reading.

“I’ve always wanted to come to Rio,” Yang states once more, “and I’ve always wanted to come here.”

“To a library? You told me you didn’t read any books.”

She did say that, in the plane, when Blake rudely hissed “Don’t you have a book to read or something?” after Yang brushed her wrist for the tenth time in order to draw her attention to the window—and to the ardent dawn kindling the sky outside.

“I don’t,” Yang smiles, “but I do take pictures.”

“Again: I hope you’re going somewhere with this,” Blake sasses.

“Hmmm,” Yang hums. She leans forward, lips brushing her ear, and whispers, “Someone needs to get tamed.”

And just like that, she walks inside the building, leaving Blake confused and—she can’t even pretend to ignore it—painfully aroused. Blake takes a few seconds to calm her throbbing heart and follows her.

The entrance is beautiful, but not breathtaking, and Blake has no idea why Yang insisted on dragging them here—and on keeping it a secret until the very last minute. So, when the two girls enter the main room and Blake finally discovers what all of this is really about, she can’t help but gasp, eyes wide open, lips parted with surprise, an indescribable emotion overtaking her.

Yang didn’t lie. It _is_ a library. Except that it’s the most magnificent library Blake ever laid her eyes on, and it steals her breath away, just like Yang this morning, when Blake got out of the bathroom and found her sitting on the balcony, wild hair glowing under the mellow sunlight, lilac eyes set on the city below, mouth curled with a smile so peaceful it stunned Blake—because in that moment, Yang was _certain_ , and it felt like she knew who she was and what she wanted, like she knew life would be good to her, no matter what.

The room, huge, imperial, is covered with wooden and golden bookcases filled with books in leather covers, dark red, dark blue, dark green, colors polished by age and delicate fingers brushing them over and over again. The shelves rise on three floors, illuminated by the sunlight, almost holy, pouring through the stained-glass ceiling.

A fade but distinct scent of old books lingers in the air. Whispers and rustles of paper crease the silence. An old man bends over a desk, one hand grazing an open book, the other hovering over a small chess set. Blake feels as if she just stepped into another dimension, where everything is muffled, sounds, odors, lights, emotions, even, carefully quieted into a calm and soothing sentiment. That is, until Yang leans close, so close her warmth wraps Blake and sets ablaze her undying desire.

“Do you like it?” she murmurs, and her voice is the huskiest, sexiest sound Blake ever heard in her entire life.

“I do,” she croaks, trying really hard to restrain her blush. “It’s beautiful. More than beautiful. It’s—I don’t have the words.”

“I can give you the tour, but I’m expensive.”

Blake shivers at Yang’s provocative smile and decides to play along. She fumbles into her black leather backpack, takes out her wallet and briefly looks inside.

“I have 120 reals.”

Yang quietly laughs. It’s sharp and low. So low. Like a very distant thunderclap announcing an electrical storm.

“Oh, babe. That’s nearly not enough.” She picks the bills from Blake’s wallet, snickers and sets them in her back pocket. Oh, _for fuck’s sake_. How fucking _hotter_ can this woman get? “You’ll pay the rest later.”

Again, that word. Later. Blake isn’t stupid. She knows Yang let her have her way yesterday, and she knows Yang won’t let it happen today. Since the moment they woke up this morning, she has been charging the air with palpable electricity, and a storm approaches, violent, inevitable, one that will shatter every single one of Blake’s beliefs and turn her world upside down. Yeah, Blake knows. And she can’t fucking wait.

So, Yang guides her along the crafted bookcases, a light hand on Blake’s lower back, and she tells her about this place’s history, about the Portuguese political refugees who wanted to bring their country’s literary tradition to Rio, then capital of the Empire of Brazil, about the library’s Portuguese collection—the largest one outside of Portugal—, about the fact that it was named the fourth most beautiful library in the world by Time magazine. Blake marvels even more at the books when she finds out that some of them are more than five hundred years old. She shivers when Yang presses a bolder hand on her back, low, too low, fingers innocently scraping her ass. And she completely loses her composure when Yang murmurs in her ear “I can’t wait to fuck you, Belladonna,” before resuming her guided tour and dropping historic facts Blake can’t possibly comprehend right now.

But she can’t let it show. Her confusion. Her desire. That faraway emotion slowly warming the profoundest depths of her heart, an emotion she forgot, or maybe she never felt in the first place. So, she straightens up, reclaims her aloofness and asks, breath deep and barely audible, “Why do you know all of this?”

“I told you, I always wanted to come here.”

“But why?”

“Because of this, of course!” Yang shows the whole area with a dramatic gesture and Blake chuckles.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is. It’s such a beautiful, unique place, and I’ve wanted to photograph it since I learned about it six years ago. It’s so—I don’t know. There’s something here, an atmosphere so singular, so gentle. I don’t know if I can do it any justice, but it’s been my dream to try.”

“I don’t see you trying,” Blake points out.

Yang gives her an amused smile. “You come first.”

“I come first over a life-long dream of yours?”

“Of course.”

Blake snorts and rolls her eyes. “You’re _such_ a Casanova. Go take your pictures, I’m not going anywhere.”

Yang winks at her and, soon enough, she’s engrossed in her camera settings. Blake loses track of time. She spends as much time marveling at the library as ogling Yang. She’s beautiful. So beautiful. And she always wears that smile, that kind, sincere smile she offers to every person passing by. It’s the simplest thing, and yet it can enlighten the day of so many people. It did for Blake. It changed _everything_. Blake’s heart swells. It’s weird. It’s painful.

It’s full. Her heart is full.

She leaves Yang to her camera, wanders for a while in the large corridor outside of the main room and eventually hides in a deserted bathroom. There, she presses two pale hands on the sink and looks in the mirror. She doesn’t recognize that girl; those bright eyes, so alive; that chin held high, those shoulders held squared, that back held straight. She used to look at her reflection all the time, to make herself pretty enough, not to please Adam, but to avoid his criticism. And yet, he always found something to say. She used to be hunched, bent by his judgment. She used to be nothing.

Blake inhales a deep breath. _Stop thinking about him_. But she has to. She has to, here, now, because Yang brought her to a _library_ and even if she will never realize it, it’s the most meaningful place she could have taken Blake. Because this is the world of books, of stories, imagination, possibilities, escape. The world of hope and freedom.

Adam never let her read. Not fiction. He tolerated articles, essays, memoirs, but never anything imaginary, never anything that could give Blake _ideas_ , make her dream, make her wish for another life, for another man. Maybe he was scared she’d realize how awful he was if she related too much to a character suffering the same kind of relationship. But the thing is, Blake already knew. It took her a while, but she knew. Adam treated her like shit, but he did it so masterfully she felt like she deserved it. Like he was doing her a favor, accepting her and all of her flaws and weaknesses, like she had no other place to go but to him, in his possessive arms, under his demeaning eyes.

And now, she’s here.

The bathroom door opens. Blake looks at Yang through the mirror and they hold each other’s gaze, silent, intent. Blake can’t speak. Yang takes a step forward and the door quietly closes behind her. She doesn’t say a word. Maybe she can’t speak either. The air thickens. Blake can feel the electricity sparking from Yang’s body. Yang takes another step forward. Oh, she’s stunning. A lightning storm brewing in the horizon, dangerous, frightening, fascinating, greater than anything.

Yang closes the remaining distance between them. Slowly, still staring at Blake through the mirror, she embraces her from behind. She slides her hands on her waist and presses her chest on her back.

“Gosh, Blake. You’re so beautiful.”

No, you are. You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen in my life. But Blake lost her voice the moment she met those lilac eyes in the mirror, and she can only stay still and silent, heart full.

Yang nuzzles Blake’s neck. Her eyelids brush her skin, her mouth lingers, ghost of a kiss under her jaw, her hair falls on her arm, her shoulder, her cleavage. She hugs her tighter. And Blake is utterly confused because Yang is _bold_. Affectionate. Showing something more than just lust. She’s saying “ _I’m not leaving”_ and “ _Stay, please”_ and Blake is starting to think that maybe, just maybe, those words, said and unsaid, bear some meaning.

Yang digs her fingers in Blake’s top, in Blake’s skin, and the reporter can’t hold her sharp breath, nor the way her hands clench the edge of the washstand. It sparks something in Yang’s eyes, a violent lightning bolt tearing through the darkness of her pupils.

“You’re lucky I’m a classy girl, Blake,” she rasps, and it’s more of a groan, a predatory warning vibrating in the air. “Or else, I wouldn’t have cared a single bit about taking you for the first time right here, right now.” Blake bites her lip. Her grip stiffens around the sink, knuckles white, muscles sore. Yang smirks. “And I have a feeling you would have liked that too.”

Fuck. Yes. She would have. But Blake doesn’t budge, doesn’t speak, doesn’t breathe. She waits, as she feels Yang’s hand drifting from her stomach to her chest, as it caresses her cleavage, her collarbones, her neck. She waits for the pressure, and it comes, gentle, controlled, an index pushing her jaw high, other fingers tightening around her throat.

“Actually,” Yang murmurs with a gravelly voice, “I have a feeling you would like it rough.”

Arousal suddenly conquers Blake’s every thought, and she can’t repress her moan, short, hoarse, almost primal.

Yang hums in her ear. “Hmmmm, nailed it.”

Her other hand clenches on Blake’s top and she smiles, voracious, vain, certain. Oh, how Blake wants to let Yang eat her alive, to let that storm break and swallow her, to let that unnerving electricity conquer her whole being. But she won’t give her that pleasure. She won’t surrender. Not yet.

“I hope you’re going somewhere with this,” she growls, eyes narrowed with defiance and pride, and Yang’s smile grows lethal.

The photographer suddenly grabs her by the waist and forces her to turn around. Their lips collide, and they both groan into the kiss—the violent, wet, uncontrolled kiss—. When Yang steps back, Blake is dizzy and _craving_ for more.

“I don’t care at what time we get back to the hotel,” Yang rasps. “Tonight, you’re mine.”

Blake impulsively clasps Yang’s shirt by the collar and brings their lips back together. She kisses her sloppily, painfully, and she hopes Yang understands.

She is hers already.

***

Yang isn’t easily flustered. Actually, she’s _never_ flustered. She’s worked with women of all sorts, bedded women of all sorts, cared for women of all sorts. She knows women. And yes, some have surprised her. Yes, some have sparked an interest that went beyond physical attraction, yes, she sometimes thought “what if”. But never like this. Never with her heart pulsing so loudly it’s the only thing she can hear, never with that knot in her stomach, inextricable, inexplicable. For the first time in her life, Yang is thinking “what if” and actually fearing the aftermath. Because this, _this_ will never go anywhere, _this_ won’t survive the flight back, and it hurts her, it scares her, it confuses her.

So, yeah. Yang knows women. But with Blake, everything is different, everything is new. When she got into the bathroom, Yang saw the look on her face. There was something there. A past pain, ghost of a suffering, and for the first time since they met she couldn’t figure out what it was. And then, then, Blake kissed her back, with all of her body, all of her will, writing silent words on her mouth as she urgently pressed their lips together, and Yang couldn’t help but wonder, but want to know, to decipher, to understand, to _hope_. But, fuck, she shouldn’t hope. She can’t hope.

Blake needs someone else. Someone better. Yang is just _there_ , at the right place, at the right time. But when they come back from Rio, when they go back to their lives, Yang won’t be _there_ anymore. She won’t be enough for someone as complex and beautiful as Blake, and she knows it. So, she can’t hope, because Blake is not hers to hope for. All Yang can do is make sure she gives her everything she can before their paths diverge, before they never see each other again.

Before the day after tomorrow.

***

When they leave the library, something feels different. Somehow, Yang seems to want her even more. Her body language is screaming desire, from her persistent gaze to the way she discreetly bites her lip, from her breath, heavier, deeper, to her fingers lingering everywhere, on Blake’s wrist, Blake’s arm, Blake’s back, Blake’s neck. The cab ride to their appointment is silent, but not uncomfortable. Somehow, during those five past days, they got used to each other. More than that, they work well together. Ilia is always efficient, doing exactly what Blake asks and needs, but with Yang, there’s something more. She challenges Blake, doesn’t hesitate to propose a different approach, and always goes the extra mile, climbing unstable ladders to take an aerial shot, engaging the people to find more info, or to make sure she does them justice when she photographs them. With Yang, work is fun and easy.

So, when Yang tells her, in the middle of the afternoon, that she wants to take a break to buy Ruby some souvenirs in a shop nearby, Blake just nods and smiles before going back to her interview. Because—and she wouldn’t have believed it five days ago when they met—Blake trusts her. She trusts her skills as a photographer, she trusts her professionalism, she trusts that she’ll come back in time and do a great job, greater than anything Blake would have expected, would have needed. And it goes beyond that, beyond work. Blake just _trusts her_. That’s it. That’s all it is. That’s why she allowed herself to let go the first day, when Yang made her dance, that’s why she confided in her about Adam, that’s why she let her touch her, why she let _herself_ touch Yang.

And that’s why she’s desperate for time to run faster, for those interviews to end, for the parades to silence, for everyone to go home, for Yang and her to go back there, in their room, on their bed, in each other’s arms. She’s desperate for _her_ , and she doesn’t even bother to hide it anymore.

***

Tonight being the peak of the carnival, Weiss bought them tickets for the Samba Parade. No more behind the curtains, no more spending the night in parking lots. Tonight, Blake and Yang will sit on comfortable chairs amongst a cherry assembly and enjoy the exuberant parades taking place in the Sambadrome. It’s mostly so that the photographer can get good shots of the parades, shots they’ll use to illustrate the report and highlight the contrasts and disparities of the Rio carnival.

When they take their seats at 9 pm, Yang knows they’re in for a long night. The parades usually end around 5 am, and the show hasn’t even started that she feels impatient and restless. She tries to focus on the carnival. On the chatter, the crowd, the colors, the drums beginning to roll at the other end of the Sambadrome. She tries to concentrate on her camera, on the first school slowly parading in the alley, on the enormous floats flaunting their luxuriant decoration, lights, dancers. She tries to ignore Blake. Blake, who keeps staring at her, who keeps undressing her with her scalding gaze. Blake, who seizes every opportunity to touch her. Delicate fingers tracing her forearm, tucking a strain of blonde hair behind a burning ear, rubbing her neck with intent, nails scratching a shivering skin.

Blake, who blatantly wants her.

So, after one hour of pure suffering, of fierce blushes and ragged breaths, of wild flames eating her whole body and lust leaking between her legs, Yang gives up, Yang gives in. She turns to Blake, luscious, provocative Blake, and her mouth suddenly dries. The gold of her eyes melted, devoured by a raging inferno, by black flames, by greediness, and she knows. Blake knows.

“I have all the pictures I need,” Yang rasps.

“Are you sure?”

Yang just nods. She can’t speak anymore. She’s shaking.

“Do you want to leave?” Blake murmurs, and her tone, low, sultry, almost brings Yang to her knees.

She nods again. She wants to leave. She wants to go back to their hotel. She wants to fuck Blake. The reporter gets up. Her heavy gaze lingers on Yang as she walks past her to get out of the grandstands.

The city is buzzing, loud drumrolls soaring through hot air, crowd gathering in the streets, and the two girls make their way through disguised men and women, dancing people from all over the world, drunk partiers swaying on the roads. It reminds Yang of their first night in Rio. Of Blake, gradually lighting up as she twirled between her arms.

They walk side by side, never too far apart. Blake’s hand sometimes brushes hers, fingertips caressing a sensitive palm, and Yang feels like grabbing her by the wrist, dragging her to a dark alley and fucking here right here, right now, for every passerby to see and hear. By the time they reach the hotel, Yang can barely think anymore. Her thoughts are consumed with images of Blake, Blake naked, Blake laid on a bed, Blake arching under her fingers, Blake on her knees, Blake begging, Blake sobbing, Blake, Blake, Blake.

The elevator doors haven’t even closed yet that Blake pounces on her and suddenly she’s _everywhere_. She bites her lip, scratches her arms, tugs her hair, and she’s wild, she’s needy, she’s _impossible_ and Yang is now literally vibrating with desire.

The electronic chime announces their floor and the doors open, but they can’t move, stuck in their heated embrace, groaning in the corner of the elevator, hands feverishly sliding beneath clothes, breaths erratic, bodies shaking.

Blake is the one to regain a shred of senses, slamming the button to keep the doors open when they start to close back.

“Room, now,” she grunts against Yang’s insatiable mouth and, somehow, they manage to make it out to the deserted corridor.

Yang fights with her bag, finally finds the key and slides it into the lock with trembling fingers. The second they step into the room, they drop their bags on the floor and she grabs Blake by her thighs, lifts her up and ferociously presses her against the door, shutting it in a loud slam. Blake lets out a sharp breath, wraps her legs around her waist and her arms around her neck, and Yang kisses her with everything she has. All of her passion, all of her experience, all of her want, all of her feelings. And Blake responds with as much intensity, whimpering, shaking, burning, squirming, silently asking for more, more, more.

Almost drowning in her own desire, Yang manages to cling on a lucid thought. Blake needs to know: she’s in control, she’s free, she’s safe. So, she breaks their voracious kiss, drawing out a shuddering breath from the other woman’s lips.

“How—” she rasps, and she can’t speak another word because Blake clasped her legs harder around her, fingers harshly gripping her blonde hair, and Yang growls at the slight pain, at the great pleasure. _How do you want me_ , but she doesn’t need words for Blake to understand her, just a blazing glare.

“Rough,” Blake blurts, voice thick with arousal.

Yang is already turning on her feet, ready to carry her to the bed, but Blake frames her face with two firm hands.

“Here. Now.”

And at those two rugged words, Yang loses the thin fragments of control she had left.

***

Within seconds, Yang drops Blake, twirls her and presses her full body against her back. Blake gasps, fingers now scratching the door, and a strangled moan resonates in her throat when Yang roughly unbuttons her shorts from behind. In one go, she tears them to her feet, along with her underwear, and Blake whimpers. She doesn’t care anymore. Fuck me against the door. Take me there, and take me quick. I’ve waited too long for this.

Yang lays a heavy hand on her waist, while the other one crawls to her dark hair and gently grasps it. Her breath grazes Blake’s ear as she rasps, “We can stop anytime, no questions asked. _Any_ reason to stop is a valid reason to stop.”

Blake just nods. She knows that already. She knows Yang would never hurt, demean or humiliate her, not without Blake asking for it. She knows she’s safe.

“Just fuck me, Y—”

She chokes on the name when she feels a strong finger entering her, and she clenches her fists against the door, body suddenly _burning_. The sensation, unexpected, _welcome_ , sets ablaze a wild fire raging from her toes to her fingertips. And yet, it’s not enough. Not even when Yang pushes deep, as deep as she can, and keeps pressing against her depths. Blake squirms, and she knows how she looks, jerking her ass to feel more of Yang, begging with her whole body, there, against their hotel room door, panties still tied between her ankles.

“You’re so _needy_ ,” Yang purrs against her ear, and Blake can hear her smug smirk loud and clear.

“Maybe if you did your job correctly I would be _satisfied_ instead of _needy_ ,” she snarls, hoping Yang would rise to the bait, and she does.

She slides her hand out, leaving Blake desperate to feel her again, and soon enough she forcefully comes back with two sturdy fingers, filling her, stretching her, pushing just at the right place. Yang tugs Blake’s hair with more strength, dragging a pleased groan out of her parted lips, and she shoves her fingers in, and out, and in, and out, and it drives Blake crazy, because it’s so rough, so raw, so good. She can’t even see the face of the woman ravishing her right now, and the thought blurs her mind with lust and pleasure. Because she’s being taken from behind. By a woman. By Yang. Because, for the very first time in her life, Blake is completely letting go, not afraid, not _ashamed_ to offer her whole being to someone else. Because she’s confident Yang wants her, and Blake freaking wants her back.

“Fuck, Yang.”

She clenches her fists tighter against the door, knuckles white, short nails digging in her palm.

“Hmmm?” Yang hums in her ear, one hand thrusting within her, the other now sliding between her shoulder blades, _pushing_ _her_ , forcing her to bend lower before her. “Do you want me to stop?” she murmurs coyly, and oh, Blake will make her pay. But not now.

“Keep going,” she breathes instead, and she’s on fire. She’s on fire. She’s on fire.

Her whole body burns. It aches, it deliciously aches, flames flaring up between her legs, in her stomach, in her lungs, to the tip of her hands. She’s consumed by an unprecedented inferno, a heated pleasure, too crude, too violent to contain. And while she moans, gasps, cries, Yang stands behind her, mighty and arrogant and fierce, fucking her like nobody ever fucked her before, finally unleashing the storm she held within all day long. “Fuck,” Yang rumbles, and she keeps saying it, fuck, fuck, fuck, sharp thunderclaps filling the hot air while she’s thrusting harder, while she slides her other hand on Blake’s waist, Blake’s lower stomach, Blake’s clit.

“Oh, _god_.” Blake almost chokes from pleasure, and Yang rubs her _just the right way_ , slow, with purpose and pressure. “Oh _god_ , Yang. Fuck.” It’s almost as if she can feel electricity flowing from Yang’s fingers to her own body, nourishing the flames roaring within. She’s losing her mind. She can’t think anymore, only spill curse after curse, breathing out Yang’s name, shaking against the door, her arousal rolling on her spread thighs. “Keep going,” she begs, and soon, it’s all she can say, all she can think about, keep going, keep going, _please keep going_. And Yang obliges. She keeps going, turning her body to lava, pushing her further, and further, until the heat suddenly explodes and Blake’s mind goes black, all black.

She doesn’t even realize Yang holding her tight so that she won’t collapse against the door, nor does she hear the shuddering moan stretching between her own parted lips. She’s lost, completely lost in an exquisite emptiness. Her thoughts are quiet. No images, no sounds, no words. She can’t see anything but the gentle darkness, can’t hear anything but the thick silence, can’t feel anything but the waves of pleasure still soothing her tensed body, washing over the blaze Yang ignited with her electric gazes, her tempestuous hands, her everlasting kindness.

Blake slowly comes back to her senses. She finally steps out of the shorts and underwear at her feet and straightens up on her wobbly legs. Yang slides her arms around her stomach and hugs her, chest pressed against her back, face nestled in the curve of her neck, and suddenly Blake’s thoughts rush back, louder than ever. She pushes back the words forming in her throat, as deep as she can, because those words speak a language she never fully mastered, never fully understood, because those words could open doors that should stay closed.

“I’m not done with you yet,” Yang whispers.

Her voice carries no threat. It’s soft, a bit uncertain even. Blake turns around to face her, and Yang smiles at her. She almost seems shy.

“I want to do it properly.”

Blake doesn’t have time to wonder what it means. Yang carefully grabs her hand and she liquifies under the touch, so soft, so intimate. Yang guides her to her bed, kisses her with care and passion, helps her get rid of her top and bra, gets naked too, fully naked, before gently pushing her on the bed and lying above her, and Blake shakes like a leaf, because all of a sudden she’s overwhelmed, because there’s too much tenderness, because it’s Yang and Yang’s body and Yang’s voice and Yang’s eyes and Yang’s smile and just, Yang, and she finally understands the word “properly”.

And after what feels like hours of locking eyes, whispering names, rolling against a firm but delicate hand, rocking against a soft but precise tongue, after crying out more orgasms than she could count, after impulsively taking Yang, because she wanted to hear her voice break and give her back a tenth of what her partner gave her, Blake finally lies in bed, spent, exhausted, so happy she could cry, fingers brushing wild blonde hair while Yang rests her head on her shoulder and sighs in content.

This feels so right.

And yet, it feels so wrong, out of place, out of time, a colorful interlude in her grey life, a limpid dream she’ll have to wake up from in two days, when they part, when Yang leaves her nothing but memories that’ll turn bittersweet along the years.

Her heart beats once too strongly, and it suddenly aches. She knows that this, that moment she shared with Yang, that intensity, that kindness, that understanding, is something she’ll find nowhere else but in Yang’s arms.

 _You’re so dependent._ His voice claws her thoughts, after one day of silence, and Blake feels the urge to run away and never look back. Being with Yang—letting her touch her, take her, give her something, anything, everything—opened a door she sealed a long time ago, to protect herself, to survive. Being with Yang means feeling again, and with feelings come blue eyes and crimson hair, icy judgment and scalding whispers, loud, so loud, louder than they ever were when he was still alive, louder than broken glass and cruel disrespect.

He never left. But his voice didn’t carry as much, muffled behind a thick door, behind work and studies, and now the door is half-open, now he breathes from the depth of her mind and it echoes, it grows, it chases everything away, her happiness, her pleasure, her hopes, her—

“You smell so good.” Yang nuzzles her neck. “How do you do that? You smell like jasmine.”

“It’s my shampoo,” she murmurs, unsettled.

“No, it’s not. I checked.”

Blake straightens up on one elbow and drops a skeptical gaze on Yang.

“You sniffed my shampoo?”

“I wanted to know why you smelled so good!” Yang also straightens herself on one elbow and laughs. “It does sound kind of creepy now that I say it out loud.”

A chuckle unexpectedly escapes Blake’s lips, and she looks at the other girl with tender eyes. She thinks Yang is beautiful. In every way possible.

Happiness comes back, a tiny twist in her stomach, a smile that can’t fade away. She doesn’t hear him anymore.

And yet, the door is now wide open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are curious about the Royal Portuguese Cabinet of Reading, [check this out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ei6bp1IEJx0)!


	6. Day six

“So?” Yang slides a slow finger on Blake’s forearm. She follows an invisible path on her skin, from her elbow to her wrist, and the sensation—so delicate and yet so intense—triggers a light tingling in Blake’s stomach. “What do you think?”

“I don’t even know what to say.”

It’s true. Blake has no idea how to express what she’s feeling right now. Since day one, she assumed Yang’s job was purely pornographic. Every time she thought about it, she pictured her photographing fully naked girls spreading their legs on heavy motorcycles or going down on each other with very exaggerated expressions. Now that she’s facing her work, she feels both dumb and dumbfounded.

“Do you like it?”

“I—”

She stops, lifts her head up to look at the woman hugging her from behind, half laid on the bed, back leaning against the bed frame. They’re still both naked from last night. Yang holds her softly, one arm wrapped around her stomach, the other hand scrolling down the pictures on the computer resting on Blake’s lap. She’s so affectionate. So caring. So _loving_. Waking her up with kisses and a smile so bright, so sincere it bewitched her and stole her voice away. Making her laugh first thing in the morning, because she can, because every word she says sparks that weird little something in her stomach, butterflies gently fluttering to her chest, tiny prickles warming her skin. Blake catches Yang’s gaze, hopeful, peaceful, and her heart suddenly races. Dammit. She hates this. She hates how _happy_ she is.

“They’re breathtaking,” she finally whispers, and she looks away because she knows she won’t be able to survive Yang’s smile. Her eyes fall back on the computer, on the black and white photography fully displayed on the screen. It _is_ meant for adult magazines. The purpose is to arouse, and it _works wonders_. Because it’s not about what Blake can see, but about what she can’t. It’s a game of hide and seek behind hands and shadows, hints of an exposed nipple under a delicate light, sharp teeth concealed by slightly opened lips. It’s art, erotism at its most beautiful form, radiant woman under subtle light, soft curves with a blazing glare.

“You seem surprised,” Yang teases.

Her breath grazes the tip of Blake’s ear and the warm breeze blows on the embers still smoldering between her naked thighs. Blake suddenly remembers yesterday. Yang’s fingers. Yang’s lips. Yang’s tongue. Heat spreads from her fingertips to the depths of her chest. She wants her. Over and over again. She wants Yang inside of her, on top of her, underneath her. She wants her begging and bragging and shaking and biting. She wants her in every way possible. And it terrifies her.

“I told you I was good at my job.”

Blake thinks about that first day, that moment she met her, about how harshly she judged Yang without knowing anything about her, about her cutting words, about the photographer’s gentle responses. Slowly, she closes the laptop. She sets it on the floor and turns around, straightening on her knees, eyes falling down on the blonde goddess leaning against the bed frame.

“I’m sorry I ever doubted you.” The whisper sparks an almost imperceptible flicker in Yang’s gaze. “Let me make it up to you.” The flicker turns into a bright flash and suddenly darkness submerges the lilac of her eyes.

“Oh, really?” Yang murmurs, a coy smile on her lips before she bites the bottom one. “And how do you intend to do that?”

“Hmmm.”

Blake sails two steady hands on the Yang’s naked thighs. She drags her nails into the smooth skin, smirks when she feels a shiver running under her fingertips, digs them into the flesh to get an even greater reaction.

“How about you open those gorgeous legs and find out?”

Yang promptly complies, a predacious grin illuminating her face that only grows bigger, satisfied, when Blake sinks between her thighs and kisses her there. Her lips meet the curls darkened by the evidence of Yang’s arousal, and she has to brace herself, to hold steady, so that she wouldn’t let go and immediately sink three fingers inside her partner. She wants it slow. She wants it gentle. She wants to drive Yang mad with desire, to make her groan and swear and threaten out of impatience. She wants her lips pouty and her eyes crimson, she wants her hands grabbing her hair and pushing her against her sex.

Blake’s mouth trails from Yang’s hairs to her clit, from her clit to her slit. She licks her there, closes her eyes, faintly moans.

“God, you taste so good.”

All she hears in response is a heavy exhalation, and she lifts her gaze to meet Yang’s. Jesus fuck. It’s like a punch in the guts. She’s so—so— _everything_. The sight alone is enough to stun Blake and make her forget it all, all except the woman crushing her with a stare so intense, so craving it would bring her to her knees if she wasn’t already bent on all four to eat her out.

The thought drives her insane. As she starts to draw circles around Yang’s clit with her tongue, she sees herself, head buried between a woman’s legs, there, on this bed, in this room in which she had the best sex of her life for two days straight—again, _with a woman_ —and instead of freaking out because of her transforming sexuality, because of her past not weighing upon her present anymore, she just burns with desire and moans against Yang’s flesh.

Ferocious, needy, Blake flattens her tongue on her clit and relishes on the whimpers she drags out of her. She’s so focused on her, her taste, her reactions, that she barely hears her phone ring on the nightstand.

Yang groans, grabs the device with a heavy hand and looks at the screen. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” she murmurs, a wicked smile on her perfect lips. Blake finally snaps out of it and stares at her with questioning eyes. “Keep going, babe.” Yang slides a heated fingertip along her jaw. “I did tell you I’d keep your mouth busy next time Weiss calls.” Her grin, so conceited and devilish, is everything Blake didn’t know she wanted. Yang finally picks up the phone. “Hey Weiss!” She burrows her fingers in her dark hair and pushes her back to her task, and this silent command drives Blake mad with desire. “No, she’s in the shower.” And Blake is, indeed, getting wetter by the minute, chin dripping with Yang’s lust, thighs soaked with her own. “Yeah, we got everything we wanted.” Yang’s breath is a bit shaky, a bit unsteady, but other than that, nothing betrays her nor the woman currently settled between her legs while she talks to their boss. “Oh, r—eally?” Blake sucks her clit, savoring the way her hips start to rock against her mouth, the way her hand clenches her hair tighter, how hard Yang has to focus so that she’d keep her voice even, so that she wouldn’t moan over the phone. “Yes, of course. You can count on me. Just send me the info.” Blake’s now keeping a steady rhythm, sucking while flipping a quick tongue on her clit, just like Yang did on her yesterday, and she feels Yang’s orgasm build, her muscles contract, her movements stiffen. “I know. I—Thanks.” Her voice shakes. The more Blake tastes her, presses her lips on hers, digs her nails in the flesh of her thighs, the more Yang struggles to remain in control. “Al—right. Thank you. Really. See you tomorrow.”

Yang hangs up and Blake can’t hold it anymore. She finally lets out the moan she was repressing the whole time and inserts two fingers inside. A low, rough sound escapes her partner’s throat, something so primal it drenches Blake’s thighs with arousal.

“Oh, fuck,” Yang breathes out, whole body shaking. “Fuck, Blake, I—I’m—”

She just needs one more push, a deep shove, an insistent tongue, and Yang convulses against her mouth. She clenches around Blake’s fingers, her words morph into a long, weak cry, her back tenses, arches, goes rigid. She comes, hard, and Blake trembles against her, lungs on fire, toes curled, pleasure overtaking her own body. God. She wants more. She wants more. _She wants more_. She doesn’t even wait for Yang to collapse on the bed. In a groan more bestial than human, she straightens up, grips the girl’s ass with one hand and ferociously thrusts her fingers inside with the other one, and Yang chokes on her moan. Her gaze falls on Blake, fierce, _exultant_ , and a crimson shade tints her eyes at each vigorous push.

“Sh—it. Harder. Fuck me—harder.”

And Blake does, mind drowned in desire and need and pleasure. She gives her everything she has, everything she is, teeth sinking into Yang’s shoulder, her own body rocking against hers, and she whimpers when her partner comes once again, so loudly it’s all Blake can hear, all she wants to hear, that uncontrolled and broken wail scattering into hot air, that dragged breath fractured by violent shakes, that silence, thick, stunned, perfect.

She stays there for a while, in absolute awe with the way Yang looks—her breasts rising heavily at each exhalation, her golden curls wild and disheveled and yet not one lock seems out of place, her lips, still swollen from when she bit them too hard to repress her moans when she was talking to Weiss. Her eyes lost their copper tone and Blake now baths in a gentle amethyst light, shining and soothing and so intense it sucks the air out of her lungs.

“Blake…”

Yang’s voice is so soft. Filled with wonder and something else, so present and yet untouchable, a truth Blake can’t put into words yet, even though she’s craving to.

“Come here.”

Yang glides two tender hands on Blake’s cheeks and pulls her into a slow kiss. She explores her lips, slides her tongue between them, shudders against her mouth as she wraps her arms behind her neck. The embrace lasts for what feels like a transient eternity, and when Yang breaks it off, Blake chases her mouth, greedy for more.

“You were right,” she whispers. Her breath caresses Blake’s lips and the reporter wonders how she managed to survive this long without it. “I do taste good.”

Holy fuck. This—Yang tasting herself on Blake’s tongue—ignites another wild fire in her lower stomach, and she avidly brings their lips together again, drawing her into a heated kiss that better lead to Yang taking her with all her strength.

“Blake,” Yang manages to rumble before sharp teeth carefully tug her bottom lip. “We need—to go.”

“Our next appointment is in two hours. It leaves us _plenty_ of time.” Blake takes Yang’s hand and lifts it to her naked breast, reveling in the sensation, warm palm gently rubbing her nipple on instinct. “Please.”

Gosh, she’s so needy. And she doesn’t fucking care. She has one more day with Yang. Tomorrow at the exact same time, they’ll be flying back home. Tomorrow, they won’t share _this_ anymore. They’ll say goodbye and everything will disappear. Tomorrow, Yang won’t be hers and hers only, and Blake needs to fill the void already forming in her chest. She needs this. She needs this present, blissful and fragile, before she drowns in the future, suffocating and unyielding.

But Yang shakes her head and, with what seems to be a tremendous effort, she gently pushes her back.

“We need to go,” she breathes out, voice hoarse and uncertain, and she’s fighting a desperate battle—Blake can read it in her eyes flooded with pain and hesitation. “Weiss changed our schedule, we have an interview in less than an hour.”

There aren’t enough words to describe how disappointed Blake suddenly feels, and she has to settle for the one clear thought that loudly echoes in her mind.

“I’m going to kill Weiss when I come back.”

At least, it makes Yang laugh heartily.

***

Blake is pouting. She has since they left the hotel, and every time Yang sees those dark lips pinched in a clearly annoyed expression, she wants to laugh and kiss them until they get full and voracious again. She already knew Blake could be grumpy—hell, the reporter showed her her moody side not even two minutes after they met—but this is a whole new kind of sulkiness.

Truth be told, Yang would sulk too if she didn’t know better. Today is their last day together. Their last chance to enjoy this, to get to know each other better before they part ways and all of this fades into a strange, soft dream she’ll try to revive for the rest of her life. Because, fuck. How many times has Blake stolen her breath? How many times has she stricken her with awe, brightened her world, stopped time, with a single look, a gentle chuckle, a graceful gesture? How many times has she made her want to stay?

A thick feeling settles into her stomach. It twists her muscles and silts over her lungs. Yang can’t stay. Because if she does, Blake will be the first to leave. Hell, Blake wouldn’t even want to stick with her in the first place. No matter how hard Yang make her come or laugh, no matter how much she cares, she’ll never be enough. She knows that. She learned her lesson.

“How far are we?”

Blake drags her out of her bitter thoughts. Yang shakes her head. She can’t think about tomorrow. The only thing that matters is today, and all the promises it holds, all the promises they won’t be able to fulfill.

“We’re close,” Yang smiles, and for the first time since they met, it’s not sincere.

Blake sees it, the uneasiness of her heart, and her expression softens. It’s as if she knows, as if she’s wrestling with the same discomfort, but she doesn’t say anything. Yang almost wishes she did.

The photographer asked the cab driver to leave them a bit further down the road, and they’re now walking towards the shore. Yang guides them to a quiet marina, far from the city center, where tourists are nowhere to be found and fishing boats rock on a kind sea, under a sky so blue it looks like a painting.

“You do know that at this rate we’ll never make it in time for our next appointment, right?”

“Geez, Blake. What is it you said when we went to Maria and Flynt’s place? Oh, yeah.” Yang takes a deep breath, adopts a slightly stern expression and smooths her voice so that it’d sound like Blake’s. “ _Can’t you just trust me?”_

Blake snorts, not at all impressed by that poor imitation of herself, and to be fair Yang could never do any justice to her gentle voice, so clear she can spot it within a chanting crowd, so beautiful it kindles her eternal desire every single time—that, and something else, subtler, scarier. That terrible something that makes her want to stay.

“Seriously though, _who_ are we meeting here?”

“I told you, an organizer or something. Weiss wasn’t clear.”

“What the hell is she thinking,” Blake mutters, a concerned look on her delicate face. “She knows she can’t change our schedule like that. I didn’t even have time to prepare my notes, I have no idea who this guy is, and we’ll be running late for our next ap—”

“Blake.”

Yang doesn’t know if it’s the steadiness of her own voice or the way she intertwined their fingers, but she managed to silence her partner. One look at her, and she notices the light blush darkening her cheeks and the tip of her ears. Oh, how endearing can she be. Getting overwhelmed by work and completely deflating the second Yang steps in, touches her, says her name. How incredible is it that Yang has that effect on her, that she went from being an annoying stranger to this. Whatever this is. Whatever this could be. Whatever this will never be.

“Wait for me here.”

“What? But—”

“Just trust me, okay?”

Yang squeezes her hand and Blake completely reddens, eyes darting to her feet in a futile attempt to hide her fluster. It makes Yang chuckle.

“You’re so fucking adorable,” she teases, and Blake immediately glares at her, golden rings shining with indignation.

“I am not ador—”

Yang grabs her white blouse and pulls her into a gentle kiss.

“I’ll be quick,” she whispers.

She releases her, turns around and, as she walks away, she can feel Blake’s stare piercing her to the core.

***

Blake lost sight of Yang. Her blonde mane disappeared at the corner of a small shed, and all that remains is a striking sun casting warm shadows on the docks, seagulls perched on mooring posts, clear water lapping against the pontoons and twirling the seaweeds around the stilts. It smells like iodine and algae. It smells like home. Her real home. The one she left because Adam convinced her it’d be better that way, to start new, in a new city, with a new job. Far away from her parents and her childhood friends. Far away from the ocean, the sand, the cackles of laughing gulls. From everything but him.

She would have lost it all, if it weren’t for Ilia, who followed her a year later and got hired by the newspaper thanks to Blake’s recommendation. Ilia was the bridge between her two worlds, the one she left behind and kept looking back to, and the one she was striving to survive in, full of bitterness and sharp solitude, and yet brightened by a few unexpected people, by Ilia, Weiss, Sun. Ilia was the one to give her news of her parents, because over the course of the years, Blake wouldn’t speak to them anymore, not truly, not from her heart. Adam made sure of that.

A school of fish swirls in the limpid sea, under the pontoon Blake is sitting on. Maybe it’s their circular motion, slow and regular, maybe it’s the soothing air, maybe it’s herself. Blake feels like she can face him head on. She knows she can. All this time, she tried to muffle his voice, to shove it to the deepest, darkest part of her soul. And then, she met Yang. And it took that girl, that stranger, only six days to slowly chase Adam’s voice away, to cover it with louder, clearer, happier thoughts. And now, Blake stands strong.

Adam is still here. Maybe he always will be. And that’s okay. She can fight him, correct her own mistakes, untangle his voice from her thoughts, his desires from her desires. She’s strong enough now. She just needed someone to show her that.

She notices Yang’s smile before anything else—her cheerful eyes, her stunning face, her glowing hair—. It’s the brightest smile Blake has ever seen, and it makes her feel whole.

***

“Come with me!” Yang chirps.

She can’t even control the excitement vibrating in her voice. She grabs Blake by the hand, helps her stand up and drags her behind her as she guides them along the wharf. She’s happy. And bitter. Because this happiness will end tomorrow and she _has_ to enjoy this to the fullest, right now, until life wrests it from her like it did so many times before.

Her heart squeezes tighter when Blake’s fingers slide between hers. Oh, now is not the time to get bold and tender, Belladonna. One glance at her and it breaks her breath into thin air; Blake is staring at her like a hawk at its prey. She _wants_ her, but there’s something there. It’s more than desire. It’s a delicate color, the same polished gold Yang marveled at a few seconds before Blake kissed her for the first time, a strong resolved softening the edges of her sharp gaze.

Yang looks away.

“We’re here,” she manages to croak, and the skepticism she spots out of the corner of her eyes on Blake’s face makes her laugh, makes her forget everything but that gorgeous woman she’s so extremely lucky to spend the day with, here, in Rio de Janeiro.

“Are we interviewing fishes?” Blake sasses, eyes wandering to the small pontoon her partner dragged them to.

Yang chortles. Proud, way too proud, she takes out a set of keys and wiggles it in the air.

“We, my friend, are going for a ride.”

She jumps into the boat rocking against the wharf, a racy white and blue bowrider, and she can’t help but laugh again, loudly, because Blake looks so _confused_ right now it should be immortalized on canvas.

“I don’t understand,” the reporter finally breathes out.

“Weiss booked us a boat for the rest of the day.”

“But, the—What about the interviews? Work?”

Yang extends a gentle hand and Blake grabs it unconsciously, too baffled to resist anything.

“All fake.” She helps her get on board and greets her with a soft smile and fingers lingering on her forearms. “She planned this long before this trip. She wanted you to enjoy your last day here.”

“Oh.”

It’s a whisper, a small hint of everything happening in Blake’s mind. How touched she is. How grateful she feels. Yang can’t even restrain her grin. She’s exultant and, as she unwinds the cordage tying the ship to the dock, she mentally thanks Weiss from the bottom of her heart. Blake sinks on the seat, dumbfounded, and only when Yang takes place behind the commands does she finally recover her senses.

“Wait. You can drive that?”

Yang winks at her. “We were supposed to have a guide but… I have a boat license.”

“Of course you do,” Blake mutters.

Yang laughs and starts the engine. Soon, they’re sailing the turquoise waters under a vivid wind and a warm sun.

***

Blake always loved the sea. She grew up with the sound of waves waltzing on the beach and lulling her to sleep. She used to chase hermit crabs and marvel at the sea turtle hatchlings. She adored how dry sand burnt her feet and wet sand cooled her heart. It was a part of her, a scent she’d always remember, a radiance she’d always miss.

Because, one day, she left. She turned her back on limpid water, small fishing boats and wild dolphins, and she never came back. Not even after Adam died. She’s not sure why. Shame, probably. She couldn’t face her own reflection in the gentle sea, in her parents’ eyes. Now, she’s there, and every single thing feels right. Ocean spray on her skin, foam streak behind the boat, blonde hair floating in the saline air.

Yang drives them around the Guanabara Bay. Sometimes, she pushes the engines as fast as she can. The wind whips their faces, the hull takes off at each wave and smashes back on the sea, and they both laugh and giggle and hold onto each other. Sometimes, she stops the engines altogether and they slowly drift on quiet waters, only pitching when another boat passes nearby. They listen to the sea: waves rolling on distant shores and seagulls sniggering above them. And they look at each other. They smile at each other. They reach out, skim hands, shudder when a finger slides low, from neck to shoulder, from shoulder to wrist.

And, yes, every single thing feels right.

Yang makes her laugh. It’s crazy how easy she brings a smile on her face and lights up her whole day. How easy she makes it to think that the future holds more surprises, more thrills, lighter days to look forward to. Blake is almost excited to come home, because now she’s expecting more from life.

She stares at the mesmerizing girl smiling behind the command. Yang showed her that she was strong enough and reminded her how beautiful life could be. One day at a time. Suddenly, Blake knows exactly what she wants. And even if she might not get it in the end, she at least has to try.

***

“How did you meet Weiss?”

“I dwid a woto woot wiw hew.”

“Please don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Yang covers her lips with her hand and chuckles before finishing the last bite of her sandwich—they bought some food on one of the small islands sprinkling the bay after Blake’s stomach started rumbling louder than the boat engines.

“I did a photo shoot with her,” she repeats.

“Oh, oka—Wait, what?”

Blake’s eyes widen with shock and Yang laughs some more, delighted. Oh, she’s going to _love_ telling that story.

“You mean—Did you— _You mean nudes?_ ”

Blake looks more excited than horrified, as if she just discovered Weiss’s dirtiest secret and she fully intended to use it to blackmail her boss.

“No, you dork,” Yang giggles. “I do portraits too. Official portraits. But it’s rare. My main income comes from adult magazines.”

“Oh.”

Yang snorts. “Why do you look so disappointed all of a sudden?”

“I was just expecting something a bit more… I don’t know, juicy.”

“How wicked of you, Belladonna.”

Yang leans forward, forearms resting on her thighs, and she flashes her the smuggest grin she can give. Blake flushes and, _god_. She’s beautiful. So endearing. So fierce and yet easy to fluster, so wild and yet docile, so aloof and yet immensely expressive. She always has one foot out the door and yet… Yet, she looks at her like that. Intrigued. Amused. Happy. Eager for more, eager to stay. She looks at her like she is enough, and Yang feels dizzy all of a sudden.

“I do have some juicy details for you, if you want,” she teases, to get rid of that strange feeling, that tightness in her chest, those stupid butterflies in her stomach. “But you’ll have to pay.”

Blake rolls her eyes, fondly. “What a shocker.”

Over the past hour, a bank of clouds poured into the sky, masking the sun, casting thick shadows upon them. They get heavier by the minute and the air hardens, filled with scents of rain and wet soil. It suits Blake. This, all of this. Sun burning bright above an impenetrable veil.

Blake rises. The closest shore is more than one mile away and there’s nothing around them but the soothing sound of lapping waters against the hull. She takes a step forward. Yang straightens on her seat. She tries to hold Blake’s gaze, to remain in control, but _it rips her apart_ and she swallows, hands clenching on her thighs.

Blake is everything. Strong and sultry, confident and vulnerable, open and undecipherable. Wonderful contradictions mightily standing before her, bringing her at their mercy. And right now, at this very moment, Yang would do anything to be hers. Truly hers.

Blake slowly sinks on her knees and Yang’s heart leaps. She slides her fingers along her jaw, caresses her cheeks, gently pulls her face so that they’d be at the same height. She kisses her. It’s languid. Unrushed. Certain. It goes beyond physical desire and it leaves absolutely no doubt about the fact that it’s more. More than sex and pleasure, more than casual fun, more than seven days in Rio de Janeiro.

“There,” Blake breathes. “I paid.”

It takes Yang way too long to come back to reality. She still feels her on her lips. She still feels her everywhere.

“I—” She draws a deep breath and ignores the smirk now painting Blake’s face. “I guess you did.” What was she paying for? What were they saying? Doing? “Uh… Oh, yeah. Weiss.” She gives herself a few more seconds to gather her wits. Soon enough, she’s wearing a proud grin of her own. “Did you know that before she met me, she considered herself as straight?”

Blake doesn’t move. She kept their faces close, so close Yang can decipher every single nuance in her golden irises. The darker shade circling her dilated pupils, verging on amber, the faint black stripes sailing on a gold sea.

“No fucking way,” Blake finally whispers, before shaking her head. “No. Wait. You? You’re _the girl_?”

Yang laughs. “I guess so? I have no idea what she told you.”

“The girl she slept with once and who turned her gay!”

Blake stands up, utterly confused, and Yang cracks up even more.

“Oh yeah, I’m _the girl_.”

“I can’t believe you slept with me _and_ Weiss.”

Yang takes her hand. She doesn’t want to ever let go.

“I only slept with her once,” she smiles. “And it was nice, but the way she ended things was so… I don’t know. Weiss like.”

She pats her thigh and smiles even more when her partner complies and sits on her lap.

“Weiss like?” Blake’s voice softens as Yang wraps her arms around her stomach and presses her forehead on her back.

“She told me, and I quote, ‘Thank you, that was very instructive.’ And she shook my hand.”

This time, Blake chortles. Yang can feel her laugh vibrating in their bodies, sincere, uncontrollable, contagious.

“God, Weiss.” Blake sounds delighted. She slightly shifts so that she can look at her, quiet eyes whispering quiet secrets, and Yang can almost hear them, that beautiful unsaid, that terrifying and mesmerizing truth. “Why didn’t you two date?” Blake asks, and the question throws her off.

“I—I told you, I’m not the relationship kind of girl.”

“I know. But why?”

A raindrop falls on Yang’s temple. It rolls along her jaw, as another catches in her eyelashes. They’re heavy and lukewarm, omens of the deluge to come, and it calms her flaming heart. Or maybe it’s Blake’s gaze, devoid of judgement, ready for anything Yang might answer.

“Because I wouldn’t have been enough,” she breathes out, and her words fade in the pounding rain that suddenly pours down on them.

But Blake doesn’t move. Water thickens her hair and drips on her face, but she doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t look away. The sound of the rain draping the sea charges the air, the distant shores disappeared behind grey curtains, and it’s just them, on this tiny boat, in this warm downfall, far from everything else, from everyone else. It’s just them, as it has been since that very first second, since Yang asked, “Are you Blake?” and suddenly all she could see was this feline, mysterious woman with golden eyes so hypnotizing they’re all Yang looks for, in crowds, in the streets, the moment she wakes up.

“What do you mean, you wouldn’t have been enough?”

It’s a whisper, a light breeze in the torrential rain, and it numbs Yang’s legs and arms.

“Come,” she murmurs instead of an answer.

She gently pushes Blake back up and stands up. Without any ceremony, she takes off her shoes, her shirt, her short, her socks and, under Blake’s stupefied gaze, she dives in the sea.

***

She doesn’t even think about it. In a matter of seconds, she strips down to her underwear and jumps in the water right next to Yang. The sea is warm, warmer than the rain, and it makes her giggle. Oh, how she missed this. She didn’t go for a swim since she left her home, years ago, and she almost forgot how liberating it feels.

Yang dives under the surface and Blake follows her. Eyes closed, lips sealed, she listens to the rain hammering the sea as long as possible, and she only resurfaces when she starts struggling for air. She’s greeted by a smile so bright she forgets dark clouds veil the sky. It’s not the first time, Blake realizes. It’s not the first time Yang steals all the fire from the sun. The question burns her once more and, this time, she won’t let her partner escape.

“Why wouldn’t you be enough, Yang?”

The bright smile slowly disappears, and amethyst eyes dart far away, beyond the rain, beyond the invisible shores and tropical forests. But Blake won’t let go. She wants to know. She wants to try. So, she glides her hand out of the water and presses her palm on Yang’s cheek. It’s cold, freshened by the rain, and for the first time since Blake met her, her eyes feel cold too.

“They all leave eventually.”

And with those faint words, Yang looks back at her and finally, finally, she lets Blake in.

***

Yang looks at Blake. She’s resting her head against the window, gazing at the rain washing over the city as their cab slowly makes its way through traffic. Her dark hair falls on her shoulders, still wet, carrying raindrops and a salty scent, and Yang’s fingers itch to run through them. She could, but it would mean letting Blake’s hand go and her heart clenches at the mere thought.

Night fell a while ago. They explored the bay all day long, lazing around on a deserted beach after the rainstorm passed, riding the boat from island to island, watching the sunset head against head, sea and sky turning pink before the clouds came back with the night. 

She thinks about Blake. There, in the water, under the rain. How she didn’t judge. How she cared. And understood. How she didn’t fight her logic but just accepted it, accepted her for who she was, with her fears and her cracks, as irrational as they may seem. She thinks about those words she never told a soul, not even Ruby, especially not Ruby. About how broken she is. Because she wasn’t enough. To make her own biological mother stay. To keep her other mom alive. To keep her dispirited dad from moving away, from retiring to the countryside and leaving both of his daughters by themselves, even though Yang had barely finished her studies at the time. To keep Ruby, even. Ruby who moved away and left her alone. They all leave eventually. So why would she give her everything into a new relationship if it’s to watch it break apart. Over, and over again. They all leave eventually, no matter how much she begs. “Stay, please.” But it’s not enough, she’s not enough.

The words came easily. There, in the water, under the rain. They melted into golden eyes that made her want to be brave, that made her want to stay. But Blake will leave. Tomorrow, after their plane lands, Blake will leave.

So, no. Yang isn’t ready to let her hand go. Not yet. She’ll relish this sensation until the very last moment, and she already knows that when the time comes, when Blake leaves, she’ll take a piece of her heart with her.

***

It doesn’t take long for lust to come back, maybe because it never left in the first place. All Blake needed was a smirk from her when they got out of the cab, that smug smile, too confident, too arrogant, and her breath grows erratic once more, her mind flashes images of Yang’s cockiness breaking apart under her tongue and fingers.

Blake kisses her before they even get inside the hotel. And she kisses her again in the elevator, in the corridor, against their closed door while Yang is, once more, struggling to find the keys in her bag. It’s hot and messy, and they stumble across the room and giggle and bite lips and whine and fall on the bed. They talk, too. _You smell like the sea. Take that off. You first. There’s sand in your hair. Do you want to order some food? Hmmm, later._

They make love. Once. Twice. Thrice. They fill the air with moans, whispers and cusses, with pleas and commands, with ragged breaths and low wails. Blake comes, and comes again, and again, and every time something grows deep within, a thought, a question, a certainty. She’s enough. Yang is enough. And Yang comes too, and comes again, and again, and Blake knows she won’t get tired of this, her, them.

They eventually order some food. They eat in bed, laugh, talk. But not about tomorrow. Not about the way back and the goodbyes. They talk about meaningless things that bear so much importance in this very moment, and Blake’s certainty keeps swelling. She wants to try. She wants to try. She has to try.

“I have a surprise for you.”

Oh no. Yang’s voice is too devilish and her smile too suspicious. Blake sits slightly straighter on the bed and cocks an eyebrow. “I don’t like the sound of that,” she murmurs, dragging out a heartfelt laugh from her partner.

“I think you will, actually. Like it.”

Yang winks at her and her apprehension dissolves within a new, curious excitation that dries her mouth and thrills her heart. Blake watches her as she rummages through her suitcase and pulls out a box wrapped in a tote bag.

“Okay, so…” Suddenly, Yang doesn’t seem as confident anymore. “There’s absolutely zero obligation to do this. I just figured you might want to try. Somehow.” She scratches the back of her head and that sight, nervous Yang darting her eyes everywhere but to hers, gets Blake impossibly curious.

“Yang, what is this?”

“It—It’s—Oh, fuck it. I’ll just show you.”

Yang fumbles for a few seconds, half turned away, before facing her. And surely, Blake didn’t expect the strap-on she’s hesitantly holding, nor the furious blush painting her cheeks or the way she bites her bottom lip, anxious and hopeful and so fucking adorable. Faced with Blake’s stunned silence, she flushes even more and starts babbling incoherently.

“I mean it’s just—It’s just an option—I’m not pushing or anything—I know it can be a lot—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. I just thought, you know? Just—Forg—”

“Put it on.”

Yang freezes. “Are you sure?”

“Put it on.”

Yang takes a slow step forward, eyes falling down on Blake, and her confidence comes back, thickens, vibrates in the air around her. Jesus. She’s so sensual, so absurdly sexy, and suddenly all Blake can think about is Yang pulling her hair and grasping her waist while she fucks her on all four.

“Now,” Blake croaks, voice wavering with wild lust.

Yang smiles. It’s wicked. So damn pleased. She lifts her hand and pushes a gentle finger under Blake’s chin, exposing her throat while letting out a satisfied hum.

“You’re so needy,” she whispers. She brushes her thumb on Blake’s lower lip. “I like that. So fucking much.” She forces a delicate finger into Blake’s mouth, grins when she’s greeted with a small bite and a not-so-shy tongue. “I’ll make you beg for it.”

Blake doesn’t falter, even though she’s so aroused it feels like fire is flowing through her veins. Yang takes a step back. She’s already naked, they both are, and she only needs a few expert gestures to put on the strap. She then takes out a small bottle from the bag—lube, Blake can only assume—, and throws it on the bed. And there she stands. Olympian. Pretentious. Knowing fingers brushing over the tip of the black dildo darting between her legs.

“Tell me, Blake,” she smirks. “Is _this_ something you want?”

Blake inhales, exhales. Oh, she knows exactly what she wants. And so, she grabs the bottle of lube, stands up and walks towards Yang.

***

“Do you always travel with a dildo in your suitcase?” Blake asks, voice low and sultry, and Yang can’t restrain a shiver. God, she’s in trouble.

“Actually, I bought it yesterday.” She has to battle not to let her fluster show through. “For you.”

Blake halts, surprise flickering in her—gorgeous, mesmerizing—eyes. “When?”

“When I went to buy souvenirs for Ruby.”

Blake snorts, walks past her, hovers in her back. “You’re sneaky.”

It’s a whisper, a blast of air against her ear, and it sends her heart rocketing against her chest.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Yang breathes out, muscles a bit too tensed to convey the confidence she’s trying to sell. Because, oh. The tables have turned, haven’t they? Blake obviously knows what she wants, and she’s coming for it. It weakens Yang’s legs to the point she’s scared of moving.

“You succeeded,” Blake states, and dear god isn’t she almighty right now. “I’m _pleasantly_ surprised.” A light finger drags down Yang’s spine, follows the leather of the harness, runs on her waist. Her eyes widen when Blake embraces her from behind, opens the bottle of lube and generously squeezes some in her palm.

She didn’t expect this. Blake, not afraid. Not hesitant. Not submissive. But, _fuck_. She loves it.

Blake starts rubbing the dildo, applying the lube from the tip to the base while her lips press wet kisses on Yang’s shoulder.

“Good,” she purrs before setting the lube bottle on the desk. “Now…” She pushes Yang’s back and guides her to her bed. “Lie down.”

Yang chokes on a whimper. But she obeys. How could she not? Controlling Blake is way too hot to deny. So, she lies down. And when Blake crawls on the mattress and slowly straddles her, she can’t help the broken “Oh my god” escaping her parted lips.

“Tell me, Yang,” Blake smirks, and shit. Shit. Shit. “Is _this_ something you want?”

“Shit.”

Blake trails two burning fingers on her skin, drawing a steady line from her throat to her chest, her navel, the base of the strap-on. “That’s not an answer. Let me ask once more. Is this—” She grabs the dildo and positions herself above it. “—something you want?” Her last word shatters when she slowly goes down, and Yang’s eyes bulge.

“Yes. Fuck, Blake, yes.”

And it is. It’s everything she wants, and more. That, that sight of her sliding down, taking in the full length of the toy while she bites her lip and closes her eyes, those perfect breasts rising at each heavy breath, those raven locks dancing on her shoulders and cascading over her erected nipples, those hands digging into her waist, nails scratching just enough for pain to enhance her own desire. She wants that. All of that. All of her.

Yang straightens up on her elbows as her eyes literally devour all Blake has to offer. She’s everything. God, she’s everything. Panting and groaning and moaning and riding her harder and faster and now holding her gaze like a lifeline, pleasure flushing her whole body, and fuck, fuck, fuck, she’s _everything_ and Yang can’t restrain herself anymore. So she pushes once, forcefully. And Blake moans so loudly Yang straightens up and sits on the bed, Blake’s arms automatically clenching behind her neck, and she starts rocking her hips back and forth. Each shove is met with a broken cry, and soon Blake buries her head in the crook of her neck. Teeth sink into her skin; she’s trying to hold back her voice, getting louder and louder as Yang thrusts her hips harder and harder. Their bodies collide, crash, clash. Slender fingers dig into her flesh and Yang knows she’ll bear claw marks for a few days—and she’ll do it with pride.

“Fuck—Yang—” Blake’s voice cracks. “Yang—” It morphs into a sob, and soon she can feel tears rolling on her neck. “Yang—” Blake breaks apart, one whisper at a time, hands now grasping her blonde mane with despair, and she moans, she shakes, she convulses, she cries, and Yang keeps going, keeps pushing, keeps fucking her with everything she has because tonight is their last night and she can’t let go, she can’t, she has to give her everything, she has to mark her, to be more than just a fun memory, more than an encounter Blake will barely remember in a few years.

“Yang—”

“Fuck, Blake…”

“Yang— I’m—”

“ _Fuck.”_

Blake comes. It’s violent. Strong. Emotional. She grasps Yang in her arms and won’t let go, still convulsing against her, still sobbing uncontrollably. Silence falls in the room. Time has stopped once more, and how Yang wishes it would never start again. But it does. It has to. Blake leans backwards, just enough to catch Yang’s gaze. She frames her face between two trembling hands and stays there for a moment, breathless, eyes blurred with the remnants of her tempestuous pleasure.

“Yang,” she murmurs once again. And there’s something in her voice. Something that makes Yang’s heart leaps. “You’re enough.”

“What—”

“You’re enough,” Blake repeats, tone firm and unyielding. Her eyes shine with such certainty Yang feels like crying. “You’re more than enough.”

“Don’t.”

“No. Yang. Listen to me. I— I want to try.”

Yang clasps Blake’s hands, still framing her face. She’s dizzy. Hopeful. Scared.

“You’ll leave.”

At this, Blake shakes her head and presses her forehead on hers. She whispers, voice low and trembling, “I’m the one who’s afraid of you leaving.”

Everything in Yang quakes and shatters. The walls she set up so long ago to protect herself collapse, blown apart by those few hushed words, and she looks at Blake as if she’s seeing her for the first time—as if tomorrow will be the beginning rather than the end.

“I want to try,” Blake murmurs again, and Yang knows it’s not about running away from Adam, it’s not about needing help. It’s about them and the way they match, the way they gravitate towards each other, the way they make each other happy. “Please, Yang. Let us try.”

Yang’s lips stretch into a thin smile, that soon turns into a radiant grin.

“Are you asking me out, Blake Belladonna?”

“Oh, shut up,” Blake chuckles. “Just answer me.”

“Hmmm, you know what?” Yang tucks a dark lock of hair behind her ear and brings their faces even closer, lips brushing against hers. “I think I’m going to make you wait.”

“You’re such a jerk.”

“Your jerk.”

And Yang kisses her, blissful, free, eager for tomorrow and every other day after that.


	7. Day seven - Epilogue

Yang wakes up with the sunrise. Gentle light on her face, birds chirping near the open window, delicate breeze blowing on the curtains with fresh air. She lies here for a while, immobile, still riding the last waves of sleep. She feels good. She feels whole. Finally, she sits against the bed frame. The sheets fall off her stomach and onto the floor, revealing her naked body. She smiles. Even more when her gaze drifts on the woman soundly asleep next to her, bare skin glowing under the first rosy rays of dawn.

She can’t believe it. Her, there. Her, staying.

She brushes her fingertip on Blake’s shoulder, careful not to wake her. She needs to touch her, to feel her, even so lightly. But, as gentle as she is, Yang stirs her from sleep, and Blake quietly hums before rolling on the bed and settling into Yang’s arms.

“Is it time already?” she slurs, voice heavy with sleep.

“No,” Yang whispers. An intoxicating scent of jasmine drapes her. She’ll never grow tired of it. She sets a delicate hand on Blake’s head and caresses her hair. “Go back to sleep.” Within a few seconds, Blake’s breath returns into a slow and deep rhythm, and Yang’s last words get lost into the quietude of the room.

“I’ll watch over you.”

***

They say their goodbyes to Rio. But despite the fact that she spent the best days of the last few years here, Blake can only look forward. Today is their first day. Her first day. Today, she comes back strong and ready. Today, she stops hiding.

They spend the whole flight snuggling together and watching the landscapes through the window. This time, no cabin crew member dares to bother them.

***

They go directly to the newspaper’s headquarters. They have to report to Weiss, and Yang wonders if their friend will notice. That they’re different. That while they were out there, in Rio de Janeiro, they both found a home.

***

They walk into the open space leading to Weiss’s office and Blake immediately spots Ilia and Sun, both leaning over the same telephone receiver, arguing with the person at the other end of the line. Oh, to be back at the office. But it warms her heart. She likes it here. She owes it to Weiss. She owes it to Ilia and Sun. Her gaze lingers and a small smile stretches her lips. It’s time, she thinks. It’s time she explained.

Blake pulls out her phone and writes a single text to the three of them.

_Hey guys, up for dinner tomorrow at my place? I need to tell you something about Adam._

***

Weiss’s office is exactly as Yang remembers, except for the rainbow flag proudly hanging on the wall behind her desk.

“Damn! I knew I turned her gay, but not _that_ gay!”

Blake chuckles and sits on one of the two chairs facing the desk. “Wait until she finds out about me.”

***

“Sorry, the meeting dragged longer than I exp—” Weiss halts in the middle of the room, eyes darting from the two girls’ faces to the fingers they hastily, but not hastily enough, untangled. “What was that?”

“Well, hello to you too, dear old friend!” Yang chirps, as natural and confident as ever, while Blake nervously tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Don’t ‘dear old friend' me, what _was_ that?” Weiss squints, eyes meticulously scanning their expression and body language. She looks from one girl to the other, from Yang’s arrogant grin to Blake’s pinched lips, and slowly, very slowly, she walks towards her desk and sits on her chair. “No fucking way.”

***

They don’t talk about work. Not even for one second. Weiss keeps demanding details and details, keeps shrieking “ _Not that much details!”_ , keeps pacing up and down into her office like a caged lion. She mumbles some distinct phrases amongst indistinct groans. “I should have known.” “How did I not see it coming.” “I can’t believe we _shared Yang!_ ” “God, you two make so much sense.” “And _you_! You have to stop turning girls gay!”

And Yang laughs, and laughs, and really, she’s the happiest woman on earth.

***

Weiss has finally calmed down. The three of them are quietly sitting in her office, and Blake is struggling with her emotions. Because she’s so grateful. For Yang, for Weiss, for life. For the way a light thumb is gently brushing her palm, for the way icy eyes keep melting each time they meet hers and read the happiness swirling within. But, of course, Weiss doesn’t let her tender side show for too long. She straightens up against her seat and, suddenly, her aura once more screams “CEO of one of the most powerful newspapers of the country”.

“You two owe me a wedding,” she states, voice even, and Blake could not have seen that one coming.

“What?” Yang stares at Weiss with incredulous eyes.

“You met because of me. You owe me a wedding.”

Blake snorts. “Weiss, we’re dating, not married.” She bites back her stupid smile at the word, _dating_ , and she hopes Weiss will let it go—because Weiss noticed, Weiss _always_ notices—.

“Oh, _please_ ,” the Schnee heiress grunts. “I can feel it in my bones. You two are so easy to read. I know _exactly_ how it’s all going to play out. Yang will be the first to blurt out ‘I love you’, and she’ll be so surprised she said it she’ll laugh like the stupid dork she is.”

“Hey!”

“And Blake will be the one to propose, because she’s overly sentimental and she’ll want to call you her wife as soon as possible.”

“I beg your pard—”

“You two will get married on a sunny Sunday, with family and close friends, and you’ll both say some _nauseating_ sappy vows and won’t even be able to wait for the official statement to kiss each other. And, _of course_ , you’ll go to Rio for your freaking honeymoon. I might as well already buy the plane tickets.”

“Jesus, Weiss, _are you on drugs_?” Yang mocks, but she’s slightly blushing.

“Yeah Weiss, what are you even talking about?” Blake adds, and she’s slightly blushing too.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by Weiss, of course it doesn’t, and she rolls her eyes.

“You both know I am always right. Now get out of my office. I can’t watch you two being so disgustingly sappy for each other anymore.”

Blake and Yang scoff but obey, hand in hand. As they walk away, they fill the corridor with whispers, shorten breaths and chuckles.

And as they would eventually realize the moment they set foot in Rio for the second time in their life, it turns out that Weiss is, indeed, always right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for staying with me until the end of this (I hope) fun ride!! You can find me on [Tumblr](https://sodalayt.tumblr.com) if you want to chat with me or yell at me ;)


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